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“ There I hung suspended, just able to touch the points of ray fingers to tiie ' 
snow, with nothing to rest upon a moment—the air at zero, and growing colder, 
no prospect of any one coming that way, that night, the nearest house a mile 
away.”— Page 2C6. 
















“It was (juite dusk, nearly dark, when the Doctor and Alida reached the Binupr- 
pier’s Bridge ; so much so that they did not observe two men who came up from 
anothei woods path just as they reached the bridge.”— Page 177. 





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THE 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


Crahllers’ ^ntertaiiniunt. 


nr JOSIAK BAKNES, Seh., 

M 


NEW YORK: 

DERBY & JACKSON, 119 NASSAU ST. 


1858. 



• "S S(p| 

Gr 


Entbbbb according to Act of Congreaa, In tbe year 1865, by 


J. C. DERBY, 


In the Clerk’e OflSce of the Dietrict Court for the Southern DUtrict of New York. 



8 ? 3 




W. H, TiNgon, SUreotyper, 


PUPNBY A Kumbll, PhnUrt. 



MED 3.1 Ja4l 





A FEW preliminary words, dear reader^ which you 
can run over in less than a minute. 

There is one thing certain of writers: they cannot 
hide their imperfections. Defenseless individuals they 
are, and it would seem that they ought on that 
account alone to be charitably contemplated. More¬ 
over they work for the gratification of their fellows— 
searching heaven and earth—often times the other 
place, too—for things which they may reduce to 
communicable shape. They wear out brain, muscle 
—turn night into day, and shed ink incalculably. 
All this they do with the fear of the Public constantly 
before their eyes, and with a nice regard to the 
Public’s wants. Are they not entitled to charity? 
If they are not, I, as an humble, self-styled member 
of the fraternity, distinctly state, that I don’t know 
why. 

The book which you are now going to read (if 
according to Todd’s advice you are reading the 
preface first) is just what it is—imperfect in many 
places, yet as a whole pretty much what I expected 
to make it. I started out with the intention of pro- 


vi 


PREFACE. 


ducing something that all those who read for amuse¬ 
ment merely would find acceptable. I hope I have 
succeeded. I have worked hard enough for it, I know. 
I have worked earnestly, too. The characters whic.h 
you will meet with have not been mere idle phantoms 
to me. I have laughed and I have wept with them. 
The thread of their lives has been mine. And they 
have not passed away. Oh, no! They live as really 
to my soul as the friend who sits beside me now. 

But I will not tire you. I want you to begin fresh. 
And I want you to read right along, too. When you 
discover a fault, don’t let your mind dwell upon it; 
for if you do, you’ll miss the spirit of all that follows, 
make yourself sour, and pain me—if I should ever 
know it. 

With my best wishes, 

B., SElf. 


Contints. 


INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 

A Storm—^The Old Inn—The Writer esconced for the Night—His Introduo* 
tion to a company of Fellow Travellers—A systematic Entertainment pro¬ 
posed—Proposition accepted, and a Person chosen to lead off. % 

CHAPTER n. 

THE UTTLE CRT MAM’S STORT. 

His Birth—Childhood—Youth—His getting in Love—Rivalship—Grievous Dis¬ 
appointment—Crime—Journey to Naples—Return—Intolerable Remorse— 
Self-Banishment to Germany—Second Love—Marriage—Death of his Wife— 
Return of Remorse—Dissipation—Ruin—Salvation from imminent Death— 
Return home—Wandering again to escape the Pangs of the undying Worm.. 21 


CHAPTER m. 

THE SUrPOSBD LAWTER’S 8TORT. 

His leaving Home—Short Experience in the City—Going to Sea—A Storm— 
Wreck. 64 


CHAPTER IV. 

BUPPOSED lawyer’s STORT CONTINUED. 


Going again to Sea—Monotonous Experience—Adventure with Pirates—Pre^ 
sentiment—Dream—Struggle for Life—Thrilling Sequel . 


99 





CONTENTS, 


\ 


• •• 
vm 


CHAPTER V. 

Incidents of a Day at the Old Inn—Renewal of the Entertainment...153 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE QUAKER’S STORY. 

His Childhood—Seraph—The light-colored Lie—Seraph’s Death—His Grief- 
New Acquaintance—Joshua—Story about old Doctor Shaum—Renewal of old 
Acquaintance under other Circumstances—Fanny, and so forth—A good 
deal of it. 164 


CHAPTER VII, 

* 

QUAKER’S STORY CONTINUED. 

His Youth—Studies Medicine—Malpractice of one S. Toom—Great Tribula¬ 
tion—Gradual Emancipation—Sweet Things—Presentiments—Goes to Europe 
—Further Malpractice of S. Toom—Detained Prisoner of War—Return Home 
—Overwhelming Grief—Despair—Ray of Light—Happy Ending.288 


CHAPTER VIII. 

ELLEN’S GRAVE. 


The Child—The Maiden—Ruin—^Death 


8S1 






THE 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 

TRAVELLERS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 


INTRODUCTOKY CHAPTER. 

From an old memorandum book, lying in my 
drawer, I find that in the summer of 1836 I was 
travelling in the State of Yermont. My route lay 
to the northwest from Montpelier, through a sterile 
and thinly populated district. For want of a more 
expeditious and luxurious mode of conveyance, I was 
travelling on horseback. 

The day had been fair and agreeable throughout; 
but as the sun drew near his setting, an ominous sign, 
in the shape of a long black cloud, loomed slowly 
from the western horizon. It grew larger as it arose— 
1 * , 



10 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


blacker, broader, like a rising bemisphere, seemingly 
annihilating the golden sky in its course. The sun 
^ent down behind it, setting a resplendent diadem 
upon its great brow, which, however, soon faded, and 
the night came on gloomily. Ked flashes from time 
to time lit up the rugged depths of that majestically 
rising cloud, and an oppressive stillness came down 
like the dew. Fascinated and absorbed with the 
imposing spectacle, which the playful lightnings re¬ 
vealed, I rode on leisurely, not noticing that the 
night had fully set in. A brighter flash, centered with 
a darting gleam, startled me from my reverie; and as 
the heavy thunder lumbered away with its fast-increas¬ 
ing train of echoes, I spurred my horse into a gallop. 

An hour or so before, a pedestrian had informed 
me that I would find a public house about three miles 
ahead. Unhappily for me, my informant had chanced 
to be an honest Dutchman, lately arrived in the land 
of pumpkins and wooden condiments, and therefore 
spoke of miles in that transcendental sense which is 
the fashion of his country. This I was not aware of 
at the time, and had, with commendable sincerity, 
construed his answer to mean three English miles. 
^h^r§ is the public house ? was my first thought, on 


travellers’ entertainment. 11 

getnng my horse fairly into a gallop. Surely my 
three miles are up, I continued, seeing nothing in any 
direction that resembled a habitation of man. But 
the darkness limited my investigations, and I was left 
to push on along the narrow unfenced path, trusting 
for safety to my horse’s sagacity, and to my own 
judgment, spasmodically enlightened by the fast- 
increasing flashes of lightning. 

On I went at a rapid rate, calculating the distance 
I should be able to ride, after the rain should have 
seriously commenced, before my summer suit would 
cease to be protection against the torrent. On, on. 
The heavy voice of the angry storm coming to meet 
me, the pealing thunder, the quick gleams that lit up 
the rolling, tumbling, distracted mass overhead, sug¬ 
gested every moment the increasing necessity of 
shelter. Yet no shelter appeared. I reined my 
horse to a walk once, thinking that I saw a house ; 
but the next., flash proved it an illusion. Again, 
under full speed, I rushed along, leaving the superin¬ 
tendence of locomotion wholly to my horse, being 
absorbed myself in directing my vision most wistfully 
for some memento of man. But the livid lightning 
revealed nothing besides livid wastes of Jittle hills 


12 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


and stony plains. At length iny horse gave signs of 
fatigue, which I knew, from his mettle, had been con¬ 
cealed to the utmost, and would be followed by a 
general giving out. I had scarcely become conscious 
of this new feature in my dilemma, when the big, 
precursory drops began to fall. ‘‘ Alas! it is inevi¬ 
table,” I said to myself, and, like a wise man, added, 
“ let it come!” And it came—hail first, pelting re¬ 
morselessly, thereafter a great flood, suffocatingly 
wet. I reined my horse to a disguised trot, which he 
voluntarily merged into a walk, and composed my 
inner man in accordance with the best philosophy 1 
could summon at the moment. For a full hour I rode 
on. Still it rained—still no public house. My 
clothes and skin had almost, from the first dash, been 
so intimately connected, that they seemed equally 
parts of my body; and from my hands and feet, and 
all other possible extremities, ran steady streams of 
the liquid element. Human dignity had taken solemn 
flight, and human patience—even the very patient 
portion which I possessed—was about following, 
when the rain suddenly ceased, and the moon as sud¬ 
denly came forth, revealing to me, among other 
things of less interest, the long-wished-for public 


travellers’ entertainment. 


13 


house. It was hard by. A few minutes brought me 
to it, and a few more minutes found me with a dry 
suit on, and a dry yet fragrant cigar in my mouth. 
I sat down calmly by the capacious fire-place, and 
poking open the slumbering embers, I stroked the in¬ 
sides of my legs, and felt anxiety and ill-humor 
creeping up to my scalp, there to disappear in my 
hair, and comfort, like a full gush of sunshine, taking 
their place. I imbibed two or three draughts of 
soothing pleasure from my cigar, and looked around 
the room. It was a large one, and utterly devoid of 
even the semblance of ornament. The bare joists 
were smoked to perfection of brown, and the walls, 
which were of hewn logs, were of the same hue, 
modified and varied with occasional material accumu¬ 
lations from “man and beast.” The fireplace was 
large enough to typify the “ broad road ” of psalmodic 
memory, and was made of stone without mortar. 
A row of benches—the homoeopathic dilution of an 
architectural idea, ran along the four sides of the 
room, inteiTupted only by a square box in one cor¬ 
ner, which reminded me of that box where men 
sometimes speak the truth. In the box was a lean, 
blear-eyed, long-nosed, long-haired, long-figured, 


M 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


on-the-wliole-quite-iinprepossessing young man. On 
two sides of him were ranged on four shelves about a 
score of bottles and decanters of various shapes and 
sizes. A big tumbler—bless the generosity of a by¬ 
gone age !—set upon the front edge of the box, which 
edge, for convenience, I suppose, was made about six 
inches wide. Over the young man’s head hung a 
plain, heavy-looking gun, accompanied with a powder 
flask, which might have served for the horn of plenty. 
There were but two chairs in the room, both of which 
were as rigidly plain as an axe could make them. In 
one of those chairs I sat; and, after finishing my 
local survey, I again rubbed my legs, and felt bad 
humor travelling towards my hair, and fresh comfort 
warming me all over. 

“ Bad storm to-night,” said I to the lean young 
man, my excess of comfort having overcome my pre¬ 
possession against him. 

“ I guess yew orter know,” he responded, with a 
sort of starved grin. 

“ Many travellers lodge here to-night ?” I hastened 
to inquire. 

“ Five ’r six ’r half a dozen, p’rhaps,” he briefly an¬ 
swered, looking towards the outside door. 




travellers’ entertainment. 15 

“Where are thej?” I asked, with another hush of 
comfort; for I had experience enough in travelling to 
know that where half a dozen wayfaring men are met 
together, there is also the soirit of something not alto¬ 
gether barren. 

“ Perhaps yow’d like to see ’em,” politely anticipa¬ 
ted my box acquaintance. 

“I would,” said I, rising, and walking towards 
him. 

“ They’re in the stoop out front,” he began, coming 
out of his place, and walking, with great earnest strides, 
to the outside door. I followed. 

“ There,” said he, pointing to the more distant end 
of the covered platform, and wheeling, strode back to 
his stronghold. 

Left to introduce myself, I walked forward. I drew 
near unobserved, for two of the company were en¬ 
gaged in a discussion which fastened the attention of 
the rest. There were six of them. The first that 
attracted my attention was the one who was speaking 
at the moment. His dress was cut after the Quaker 
fashion, yet he was smoothly shaven and decently 
shorn, and his speech had all the elegant intonation 
and grammatical correctness of scholastic refinement. 


16 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


I was strongly prepossessed in his favor at the first 
glance, for I clearly perceived, in his easy, elegant 
manner, a geniality, and a quiet, fascinating humor 
which indicated that he had learned the true lesson of 
life by heart, and bore it as an amulet about him. 
His antagonist in debate appeared to be a lawyer. 

The tautology and mechanical arrangement of his 
spel^ch, as well as his declamatory manner, indicated 
it. He was a stoutly built man, with thick, nicely 
turned side-whiskers, and a cut of lip that spoke of 
dignified resolution; and when I saw his heavy hand 
descend upon his stalwart thigh, to give emphasis to 
his suppressed tones, I fancied it might strike mortal 
blows where great things should be at stake. 

Among the listeners was a rotund, fioi id-faced, 
semi-centenarian. He appeared to be quite bald in 
the moonlight that night, with his hat off. There 
were deep crescent wrinkles in his cheeks and brow, 
which showed how natural it had always been for him 
to laugh, even at things too stale for other men. His 
eyes were large and staring, like a fish’s; and as I 
looked at him, sitting there resting his chin upon the 
head of his cane, gazing intently at the disputants, his 
face bearing that stereotyped egression of jollity 


TRAVELLEES’ ENTERTAINMENT. IT 

which seemed to mock the seriousness that had taken 
possession of him, I could not help but laugh a little 
in secret. Bj his side sat a small man, and a most 
singular phenomenon he was. He had the appearance 
of having been smoked and dried to the last degree 
consistent with physical life. His hair was dry and 
thin, as were also his garments. The skin of his face 
was most unreasonably and inextricably wrinkled, 
and his mouth and eyes were greatly sunken. But 
there was a fulness in his brow and a quickness in his 
eye that betokened something not manifested by the 
rest of his person. The remaining two were staunch 
farmer-like looking men, who had undoubtedly done 
good service to themselves, their families, and their 
country, yet were too modest to allude to it, or to 
anything else when there was an opportunity to listen. 

Such were the “ five ’r six, ’r half dozen” travellers 
whom my lean acquaintance had pointed out. After 
listening for a few minutes to the discussion, which 
from a serious political argument was passing rapidly 
to a mere play of words for the amusement of the 
listeners, I determined to advance and take an active 
part in the conversation, being somewhat addicted to 
political wrangling. 


18 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


While debating within as to the appropriate man¬ 
ner of introducing myself, I became aware of the disa¬ 
greeable shortness of my cigar. Not to be embarrassed 
by any unnecessary hindrance I plucked it from my 
mouth, and from a cui’sory view, seeing no more 
eligible direction, I squared myself to throw it over 
the heads of the parties disputing. I stood about ten 
feet from them, and not calculating the distance prop¬ 
erly, I had the unspeakable mortification of seeing the 
fiery stub take its own course, which proved so wide 
from the one I had intended, that it struck with 
remarkable precision upon the nasal organ of the ele¬ 
gant Quaker. It was the work of but an instant to step 
forward, and most humbly and seriously apologize, for 
I was really very much mortified. He looked upon 
me with a good-natured smile, and said, “ My friend, 
put a little more powder to your shot next time ; 
shooting below the mark is a very common misfortune 
in this world,” and wiping his soiled nose with great 
nicety, he put the whole affair into his pocket with 
his handkerchief. 

“ But,” said I, “ let me offer some slight atonement 
to you and to the company for the interruption I have 
caused to your entertainment. Will any or all of you 


travellers’ entertainment. 


19 


step in and take a cigar—^in con(^?7ioration,” I contin¬ 
ued with an effort of pleasantry, “ of the most uncivil 
deed just committed ?” They responded unanimously 
in favor of my proposition, and we all went in and 
took peaceable possession of seven good cigars. By 
common consent we remained in the har-room, and I 
became at once an accepted member of the company. 

We all sat in silence for some minutes, each smok¬ 
ing and spitting after his own individual manner 
At length the silence, which was reaching quite an 
unpromising depth, was broken all to smash by the 
supposed lawyer’s bursting out, “Well, gentlemen ot 
—this—^present company, what’s to be done ? Tliis 
won’t do. Here are six—seven cigars going like so 
many steam mills, and nothing but smoke being 
turned out, eh?” 

“ I suggest,” piped in the little dry man, with a 
voice and manner that reminded me vividly of a 
choked hen—“ I suggest that some one be appointed 
to tell a story.” 

“ Then you hit it,” responded the first speaker, em¬ 
phatically. A general shifting of legs and discharge 
of saliva betokened the approval with which the sug¬ 
gestion was met by the rest. 


20 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


“ And, moreover,” I ventured to add, “ let us 
organize and proceed regularly to the appointment.” 

“ Agreed!” closed in the lawyer. “ Here I am, 
now, in this chair, president. Let’s have the 
motion.” 

‘‘ But,”-commenced some one— 

“Waiving all irregularities as to my getting my 
office,” interrupted the lawyer, “ let’s have the 
motion.” 

Without further preliminary ado, a motion was 
made, seconded, and passed, to wit—^that he, the pre¬ 
sident, be vested with the power of appointing the 
first one to attempt the proposed entertainment. 
Whereupon he said, “Well, let’s see. The first, of 
course, will be a victim. I’ll punish the suggestor. 
Sir!” addressing the dry man, “ you I appoint, in 
virtue of my delegated power, to narrate a tale for 
the amusement of this present company. Proceed to 
your duty, and the Lord have mercy upon you.” 

We all laughed a little at the bombastic pleasantry 
of the president; and, when entire silence was re¬ 
stored, the dry man removed his cigar from his mouth, 
and, with a dignity and precision that surprised me, 
spoke in the substance of the following chapter. 


TRAVELLEK3 EN'i'ERTAlNMENT. 


21 


CHAPTER n. 

Mr. President and Gentlemen. —You require a 
hard thing of me. I am no story-teller. I am not 
social. I have not that gush of fellow-feeling which 
so warms the heart and makes brilliant the intellect. 
I have lost it all. Gone, gone with sunny days once 
mine. I am a gloomy man, yet I do not wish to 
communicate my gloom to you. Oh ! far from it. I 
have suggested a thing here to-night, which I hoped 
might make the time pass more smoothly. I had no 
intention of taking a part, except as a listener. And 
now that I am forced to take the part which, by my 
consent, devolves upon me, I know not that I shall be 
able to forward the design I had in making the sug¬ 
gestion. I have no trivial tale to relate. I know 
none. There is but one story in my mind. It is the 
story of my life. If you will hear that, listen. I will 
be brief. I wish you could excuse me. Yet it will 
not be without a certain pleasure—a bitter, melan- 


22 


“green mountain 


choly pleasure indeed, but still a pleasure—for me to 
tell you what bas been my lot in this world. 

I was an only child. I was born at sea, on board a 
•vessel from Liverpool, bound for Calcutta. An old 
sailor, who made some pretensions to astrological eru¬ 
dition, remarked on deck, after hearing that a child had 
just come into the world in the cabin below, “ God 
forbid! That child had better never been born. He 
will have a heavy sea to ride. Let them look well 
to his build.” This my father told me many years 
after, as I bent to receive his dying blessing. 

My father was at the time of my birth engaged in 
the East India trade. He had been peculiarly pros¬ 
perous, and was the possessor of an immense fortune. 
Yet unsatisfied, he had again risked the dangers of 
the sea and a tropical climate, to add a few more 
thousands to his almost boundless wealth. My mother 
had always accompanied him in his voyages, choosing 
to risk her life rather than suffer the pangs of anxiety 
during his absence. I remember but little about her, 
for we were not long together. God grant that we 
may meet again! I might forget the past in her 
serene presence. 

My childhood was pretty much like other child- 


travellers’ entertainment. 23 

hoods, I suppose. Yet there are two incidents, very 
vivid in my memory, which happily do not always 
make a part of children’s experience. The first which 
I shall relate was an adventure in which I most sin¬ 
gularly escaped a horrible death. 

My father was very fond of filling up his leisure 
with hunting. He was a daring man, and had the 
reputation of being the sharpest shot in all the region 
round about. He rode, on his hunting excursions, a 
powerful and well-trained horse, whose nimbleness, 
and almost human sagacity, had been of essential ser¬ 
vice to him in many a bloody and desperate encoun¬ 
ter with that most ferocious and dreadful of wild 
beasts—the tiger. . 

I think I must have been about five years old, when 
one morning, as my father was preparing for his cus¬ 
tomary hunting excursion, I took it into my head to 
accompany him. I accordingly laid my wish before 
him, and was astonished to find that he would not hear 
to it at all. I pressed into service every means of 
persuasion I could muster, but he only patted my 
head, and told me to go to my mother now, and I 
should hunt when I should get to be a big man like 
himself. This did not satisfy me, and I went away 


24 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


gi'umbliiig, and determined to go anyhow. I watched 
the direction they took, and arming myself with a toy 
spring-gun I set out after them. I was soon out of 
sight of my father’s house, toiling on with great ima¬ 
ginary bravery along the beaten track worn by the 
hunters in their frequent excursions from town. As 1 
was strutting along, entirely impregnable to the idea 
that I might get lost, I came to a narrow path leading 
off from the main track, which had such a cool, leafy, 
romantic appearance that I took it, and pursued its 
course for perhaps an hour, when it suddenly ended 
in a dark pool to which not a bit of sunshine pene¬ 
trated. For the first time I began to feel uneasy. 1 
began t^ think about my mother and home, and con¬ 
tinued to think about them until I was overcome with 
the feeling, and cried heartily. Crying relieved me 
and made me brave again, and I took up the spring- 
gun, which I had thrown down in my incipient de¬ 
spair,— determined to make my way back to the 
main track. I went on very vigorously for some time, 
growing very impatient at the seemingly interminable 
length of the narrow, crooked path before me. Fi- 
nally I became sensible of fatigue. It gained rapidly 
upon me, and soon my aching limbs gave out entirely, 


travellers’ entertainment. ^5 

and I sank down by a thick growth of underbrush, my 
head swimming and my eyes pierced with keen pains. 
The exquisite gratification sitting down gave me made 
me think for a while I would never get up again. 

I sat there some considerable time, and, at last 
being rested, I began again to think of my home, and 
with the thought came an awful sense of fear. Cold 
sweat started out all over me. I jumped up and 
seized my little gun, but quickly dropped it, for I felt 
something cold and slimy contract suddenly in my 
hand. Fortunate it was that instinct served me so 
promptly and faithfully, for a viper of the most deadly 
character shot away through the dead leaves like an 
arrow. I had grasped it in my hand! I again picked 
up my gun and trudged on—this time with no notion 
whatever which direction I was taking, and with no 
purpose except to get along—a vague idea that I 
should get home before dark being the only thought 
of my mind. How long, how very long was that 
afternoon ! As I toiled on a kind of insensibility came 
over me. I neither cried nor felt afraid; and I really 
began to feel that the woods were not so very bad a 
place after all. Towards sunset, as I sat by a .large 
decaying log, busied with plucking some tiny flowers 
2 


26 


GKEEN MOUNTAIN 


for my mother, who I knew was very fond of them, 
I felt myself suddenly seized by some irresistible power 
and borne away through the thicket with a wild rush 
which so bewildered me that I could not stir a limb. 
I had never seen a tiger alive, but I instinctively felt 
I was in the jaws of one. Fortunately my clothes 
held the weight of my body, for his keen teeth had 
only seized on them. Had my clothes given way the 
second hold would have been more secure ! I had 
just recovered from the first shock sufiiciently to be 
fully conscious of my situation, when I felt a stinging 
sensation in my head, and I remember no more until 
I found myself in the arms of my father. I heard him 
relate the circumstance of my rescue to my mother that 
night. The party was returning from an unsuccessful 
hunt, my father being about a hundred yards in ad¬ 
vance. Coming out of a jungle he saw a huge tiger 
with something in its mouth, stealing along the oppo¬ 
site side of the glade upon which he had just entered. 
His horse saw it at the same instant, and started off 
unbidden in full pursuit. Tlie action of the horse 
surprised my father, for it was a part of its training 
never to commence pursuit voluntarily. From the 
nature of the ground my father was aware that pur- 


travellers’ ENTEETAmMENT. 27 

Buit would be not only fruitless but dangerous ; and, 
after permitting the caprice for a few moments, he 
attempted to rein in the horse for the purpose of 
rejoining the company. To his surprise he found 
himself unable to do it. Tlie horse seemed in a 
frenzy—so fierce was its eagerness to overtake the 
wild beast. 

After two or three unsuccessful attempts to stop or 
divert the horse, which, though at an alarming speed, 
did not gain upon the tiger, my father gave a sign for 
the company to follow, and yielded himself to the 
direction of his horse. A few moments more and the 
tiger turned to cross the glade, which was long and 
narrow. It was in fair view. It was the only chance, 
for the tiger was evidently making for the thicket, 
which at that time of day would effectually shield it 
from further pursuit. Though at an unusual distance 
he determined to have a shot. Utterly unconscious 
of the to him infinite importance of that shot, he fired 
carelessly; but some good angel had touched his 
nerves, and the bullet pierced the heart of the bound¬ 
ing tiger. It gave a tremendous leap in the air, and 
fell dead. “Thanks to the noble hoi’sel” said my 
father. He would not say it now! 


28 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


The second incident that varied the monotony oi 
my childhood, was the death of my very dear mother. 
With her sunk a star which might have led me to 
another destiny. She died a few days before the 
anticipated final departure of us all to England. Her 
illness was short, and her death quite unexpected, as 
I have often heard my father say. I remember, with 
the utmost distinctness, though but in my sixth year, 
how she looked when clothed for the grave, and how 
my father wept, standing beside her. I had never 
before seen my father weep, and it was a terrible sight 
to me. 1 remember asking him why he talked to my 
poor mother, as I called her, wdio was dead, and could 
not hear him; and I wondered why he took me up 
when I said that, and hugged me so long. But I 
understand all those things now; how clearly my 
story will show. 

Soon after my mother’s death, my father, with me, 
embarked for England, where we arrived, after a 
prosperous voyage. I was directly placed under the 
grim supervision of a teacher of Greek and Latin, 
and urged through the usual course preparatory to the 
acquiring of my vernacular. Solemn days grew into 
solemn weeks; and the latter built up montlis—tedi« 


TKAVELLERS ENTERTAINMENT. 


29 


ous months from which came years—two long years, 
of which I have but a cloudy remembrance, relieved 
by occasional beams of sunshine, when I was permit¬ 
ted to go with my father, who seemed to have no con¬ 
trol over me, into the country, to spend a week after 
the manner of joyous childhood. At the end of the 
two years I was placed under another teacher, who was 
more mild and genial, and who improved upon the 
soil, so manured and harrowed by the former husband¬ 
man of young mind, by sowing therein seeds of more 
practical knowledge. With him I acquired consider¬ 
able proficiency in reading, writing, and speaking, 
according to rule, my mother tongue. I remained 
with him, off and on, a long time—seven years, I 
think, and left his roof to enter upon the treadmill 
course of “ collegiate education.’^ Being of an active 
turn, and quick to imbibe, I soon attracted consider¬ 
able attention in that palace of words and diagi’ams, 
called Oxford University; but it was short-lived. I 
soon tired of committing Latin paragraphs and Greek 
stanzas, and exhibiting my skill in mathematics, by 
elaborately-solved geometrical problems ; and, at the 
advice of a vocalist of considerable note, devoted 
myself more particularly to the cultivation of a talent 


so 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


for music, wliich, from early childhood, I had mani¬ 
fested to a somewhat remarkable degree. I gave up 
my college studies altogether, and, at the age of 
eighteen, commenced my real career. My natural 
gift was not long developing under the excellent tui¬ 
tion which my father’s wealth brought me. At the 
age of twenty I gave my first concert, which was re¬ 
ceived with enthusiastic applause, and introduced me 
at once to the world as a gifted vocalist. My youth 
added furor to the public sentiment regarding me, 
and in a few months I found myself the burdened 
object of universal admiration, as far as I knew. 
These were happy days. Bright, indeed, do they ap¬ 
pear to me now, far over the dismal desert. I have 
now a circumstance to relate, which was the subtle 
starting point of all my woes. And let me premise, 
that if, in what follows, I exhibit the refiection of the 
heart-tearing agonies I have endured, it shall not be 
imputed to me as weakness to be despised, but be 
charitably contemplated. 

It was on a moonlight evening. I was returning 
from a concert, where my efforts had been received 
with unusual applause, and, flushed with the glory of 
success, was passing a residence of splendid exterior. 


TRAVELLERS ENTERTAINMENT, 


31 


when my eye was caught with an angelically beautiful 
face, turned towards the slightly waned moon, smil¬ 
ing down from midheavens. The owner of that face 
was leaning over a low gate; and as she stood there, 
looking far off into the serene sky, so divinely beauti¬ 
ful did she appear, that I involuntarily stopped to 
gaze at her, I stood but a moment, and then passed 
on; yet the image remained in my mind, gradually 
deepening into my heart. From that moment, I was 
in love; and it was my first love, deep, pure, and 
as earnest as life. 

The town where this happened, was a place of but 
temporary sojourn to me ; and though I had no inti¬ 
mate acquaintance there to whom I could confide my 
desire for an introduction, I yet determined to have 
an interview with the object upon which my imagi¬ 
nation had taken so strong a hold. Owing to 
the difficulty I have mentioned, it was several 
weeks before it was brought about. But I tri¬ 
umphed over all hindrances; and one balmy 
afternoon, I was decently and auspiciously presented 
to the young lady, whom I shall call Emily, for 
convenience. Unlike some- moonlight scenes, I' 
found daylight gave additional charm. My imagi- 


82 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


nation had, meanwhile, been very liberal, bnt I 
was not long in discovering that it had not even 
done justice to her. I was literally entranced 
with the exquisite grace and tenderness of her 
manner. Her exterior entirely displaced my beau 
ideal of female beauty; and when, on passing 
from the introductory common-places of conver 
sation to more solid talk, I found her sensible 
and thoughtful, and withal witty, you may well 
conclude that a general displacement came to pass 
within me. I was intoxicated with the ambrosial 
draught. It inspired me, and I discoursed enthu¬ 
siastically. Finally, at the suggestion of the friend 
who had introduced me, I sang; I sang a ballad 
which had a mournful ending; and as I dwelt 
with deep feeling upon the last refrain, I saw 
the pearly tears chase each other down her cheeks, 
pale with emotion.—Oh! that was a happy moment 
to me—^unutterably happy. Heaven alone can 
give me such another. I departed glowingly 
from her presence, and withdrew myself from 
the companionship of the friend who was with 
me, retiring along the unfrequented shores of 
a creek in the vicinity, to think over the things 


TRAVELLEKS’ EN'JERTAINMENT. 33 

of tlie afternoon. The gushing happiness that had 
at first overwhelmed me, passed on like any 
other momentary tide, and left me in a specu¬ 
lative mood. It was my song, and not I, that had 
moved her so deeply. I remembered of having 
seen large auditories in tears, at the same ballad, 
before. ‘‘I have made no especial impression; 

and yet ”- In this line I speculated until the 

tolling of a distant clock admonished me of the 
lateness of the hour, loth to arrive at any con¬ 
clusion, becaiise the right one could not be arrived 
at from the premises. But on my way home, 1 
came to a 'wholesome determination, which was, to 
lay siege, which, if needs be, I would turn into 
a blockade, and patiently await the result. I 
began to execute my plan of operation, by mat 
ing it convenient to pass the house of my beloved, 
two or three times a day, looking up the third 
time of passing each day. I generally saw her 
at the window above, set in flowing crimson, and 
lace curtains, like a painted picture. One day, I 
caught a smile of recognition from her, which 
encouraged me—I was grown wondrous bashful— 
to call upon her. The interview was long, and 
2 * 



34 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


undist'arbed ; yet I made but a poor figure, being 
very dull, actually sleepy, tbougli it was in the 
afternoon, and uncontrollably absent-minded. But I 
was far from insensible. That dear image went 
deeper into my heart at every gaze. Her man¬ 
ner towards me was so artless, so unreserved^ 
that I ventured to repeat my visit after a short 
interval. The reception I met with was ever so 
cordial, so vivifying, that I soon ceased to draw 
pleasure from anything else. My profession was 
forgotten, my reputation, my friends, everything 
but the sweet, ever-thought-of Emily. I wanted 
her to know }iow I felt. I became exceedingly 
impatient to dissolve before her, and beseech her 
to love me, as I loved her. But I was proud, and 
feared a repulse. She was ever friendly to me, 
yet nothing more, so far as I could see. I knew 
she was fond of my society, loved to hear me 
sing, respected my taste, studied to please me. 
But this knowledge gave me no satisfaction. At 
length, I became after a manner desperate, and 
rushed headlong to a fierce determination, namely, 
that I would tell her just how I felt, frankly, 
and ask her frankly what was to be done. This 


TRAVELLERS ENTERTAINMENT. 


85 


I did with many sighsj^ and some tears; and was 
encouraged to hope by her remaining silent the 
while. When the scene was over, she took my hand, 
and playfully diverted me with fancyings oddly 
timed yet like her—of how the villages in America 
looked, and the cottages, and the great forests, the 
lakes, the solitary streams, the quiet, uninhabited 
valleys of which she had read, talking on so 
sweetly for an hour. Strange girl! thought I, as 
I walked home, so cool, and. still so bewitching. 
A shadow fleeted across my soul that night. It 
was the first dim moving of the dreadful storm, 
whose fruit was to waste my life. 

So much time had been squandered in pursuit of 
this sole object of my then existence, that its accumu¬ 
lated length now attracted my attention; and I felt a 
dawning conviction of the necessity of changing my 
social habits a little. Having relieved myself of a 
portion of the burden, I found it not at all disagreea¬ 
ble to accept tlie next invitation to attend a select 
party. It was at the house of a stranger, apd my at¬ 
tendance was, I might say, professional. I was highly 
gi’atified with the proceedings of the evening, until 
near the close, when, after having sung to the over- 


36 


MOL^'TAIJ^ 


whelming satisfaction of the company, I heard some 
one ask another member of the party if he also would 
furnish a song. It seemed to me a little out of taste, 
but I joined the rest in pressing the invitation. The 
nvited, after much urging, took a seat at the piano. 
Ee was young and strikingly handsome, having a no¬ 
ble expression of countenance, and modest demeanor. 
[ had never seen him before, and had not noticed him 
particularly that evening. With subdued touch his 
fingers ran over the shining keys, and in a moment I 
felt that he was a master. In the trembling chimes 
of the dying prelude his voice came gently into har¬ 
mony, and waved off into a gushing melody so sweet 
and unaffected, yet so skillful,—again I felt he was a 
master. He sang one song, and then retired, leaving 
the room. “ Who is he asked a lady near me. His 
name was given. Ho one of the party had ever heard 
it before, except the informer. 

The next day I saw an announcement, pientituily 
placarded upon the fences and lamp-posts, signifying 

that a Mr. S-would favor the public with some 

choice vocal efforts that evening. He is to be my 
rival, eh ? I reflected with a tinge of bitterness, for I 
knew his power, I had felt }t the night previous. 



TKAVELLEKS’ KNIEKTAINMENT. 37 

I determined to go and hear him. To stay away, I 
wisely thought, would be accounted jealousy. And I 
will take Emily, too, 1 further resolved, and she shall 
thereby know the nobleness of my disposition. At 
the appointed hour for the concert, I called upon 
Emily for the purpose of carrying the latter resolu¬ 
tion into effect, when, to my great discomfiture, I 
found her just at the point of starting in the company 
of the young vocalist himself. The incident was as 
unexplainable as unexpected to me, and embarrassed 
me very much. Yet I behaved myself as well as I 
knew how; and she was so friendly, so sincerely 
regretted the circumstance that was to deprive her 
of my society for the evening, that I was somewhat 
reinstated, and went home quite calm, forgetting, 
however, that I ought to have been at the concert, 
until it was quite too late. Tlie next day the whole 
city was vocal with praises of the brilliant Mr. 

S-, which, of course, grated roughly upon my 

ear. J7ot so much because his sudden splendor 
bedimmed mine in the eyes of the public, but be¬ 
cause of its connection with my Emily. And the 
dismal uncertainty I labored under regarding her 
feelings towards me did not help the matter. I 


38 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


thirsted for an explanation. That evening I visited 
Emily and obtained it. 

‘‘Yon were previously acquainted with him?’’ I 
remarked. 

“ Oh, no,” she replied, “ he is the son of a friend of 
my father. ITo, I never saw him until last night.” 

This was great relief. My chance is as fair as his, 
then, at any rate, I thought; and we’ll see. 

A letter from my father, urging me to come and 
see him, had been lying in my drawer for several 
days unanswered. I had taken it out that morning 
for the purpose of answering it, telling him I could 
not come. Some trivial incident had diverted me from 
it for the moment, and I had placed it in my pocket, 
and forgotten it. On pulling my handkerchief 
out of ray pocket to mollify a sneeze, just after Emily 
had uttered her explanation, I drew with it the letter. 
It fell upon the floor before her, and she picked it up. 
“ Eead it,” said I. “ It is from the best of fathers, to, 
I fear, an ungrateful son.” 

“Why don’t you go?” she remarked on flnishing 
it. I blunderingly hinted at the true reason, and 
asked her what she would do under like circum¬ 
stances. 


TKAVELLEKS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 39 

‘‘Go, indeed I should. Your father is the best 
friend jou have on earth.” I groaned, and spoke of 
something else; yet inwardly determined to go. 

Accordingly I went. I was absent several weeks, 
undergoing, meantime, all sorts of tortures. Being 
far distant from her, I could reflect more coolly. I 
brought in review all that had transpired, and was 
often near the conviction that I had acted very fool¬ 
ishly, and that it was a mere wild-goose chase to 
attempt to arouse any passion in her. So near was I 
to this conviction, that I believe I should have 
ultimately taken an oath never to return—O! that I 
had taken sucb an oath!—had not my father, after 
hearing an enthusiastic description of the place from 
me, proposed making it his permanent residence. I 
encouraged the proposition ; and he accordingly dis¬ 
posed of his mansion in London, where he was then 
living, and we together set out, he to visit, and I to 
return to, the city of my hopes and discontent. 

As I was sitting in my room the morning after 
our arrival at the point of destination, moodily reflect¬ 
ing, I experienced a sudden enlightenment from the 
idea, that probably my fears of rivalship, which had 
grown to be quite formidable, were mere moonshine. 


40 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


His escorting her to the concert was merely an act 
of gallantry in itself; and 1 had no reason to suppose 
that it must necessarily he followed by further amatory 
advances. It was a happy thought, and comforted 
me marvellously. I whistled “ God save the King !’^ 
and cut a dancer’s flourish, in which I tore my coat, 
and expressed my satisfaction in two or three other 
silly ways, being alone ; and then, in a most happy 
mood, went down stairs for the purpose of going out 
to call on my old acquaintances. Just as I reached 
the outside door, my eyes were filled with an object 
which completely astounded me. All my fears came 
darkly back and took me captive again. My confu¬ 
sion and abasement were indeed quite overwhelming, 
for the object was none other than Emily, my adored, 

rosy and sparkling, with Mr. S-, smiling and 

excited, in a superb carriage passing at a glorious 
rate. “ Perhaps they are going now on their wed¬ 
ding trip, who knows?” said I bitterly to myself, 
willing to magnify my misery. I gazed after them, 
feeling that shadow again sweep chillingly over my 
soul. It had not yet reached to a thought—dread 
parent of the deed! 

A week passed before I called on Emily: and 



TKAVELLKRS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 


41 


almost the first thing she said to me, was to rehearse 
the pleasures of that ride, the commencement of 
wdiich I had witnessed. This she did so ingenuously, 
and so regretted my not having been with them, that 
I felt ashamed of my silly suspicion, and of the senti¬ 
ment that accompanied it. She also expressed 
exceeding satisfaction at the determination of my 
father, “ which,” said she, looking tenderly into my 
face, “ will, I am sure, secure me the society of one 
devoted friend at least.” If I had not known her as 
well as I did, I should have taken this remark as an 
insult. But I was fully aware that she spoke from 
her inmost heart, and it only made me love her the 
more. 

My father succeeded in purchasing a mansion 
suited to his wishes, and we took possession of it, my 
father and myself, living alone, our household affairs 
being regulated by an aunt of mine, who had to the 
age of forty lived without having excited the serious 
desires of the stronger sex. Having a home again, 
and its new attachments, I prosecuted my siege more 
leisurely, yet also more seriously. After the lapse of 
two or three months, my impatience overcame me 
again, and I repeated my ardent declaration. This 
time my importunity—was really desperate—over- 


42 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


came her patience, and she frankly told me, that I 
was too impetuous; that she did not want to hear me 
talk so. “When, then, O, angel!’’ I exclaimed, 
insanely fervent, “shall I have a period to my 
woes ?” She made no reply, and I went on. “ How 
shall I teach you to love me? Can I make any 
sacrifice ? Will my life serve you ? take it. It is no 
longer mine, but thine, my dearest Emily. Can you 
give me hope?” To this, and much more like unto 
it, she said nothing. Suspicion crept into my excited 
soul, and I gave it-voice. “Would you be mine 
were it not for another?” She made no reply. She 
was weeping. I intei-preted her emotion my own 
way. “ She loves another, but will not make me an 
enemy,” I said deep in my heart; and with it was 
born a deadly hatred towards my long-dreaded rival. 
I went from her presence fiercely determined never 
to see her again. 

For several days I underwent the dreadful struggle 
between passion and pride; and I began to fear the 
former would conquer, whereupon I concluded to 
make a journey to the Continent. I believe my 
sainted mother from on high gave me that impulse; 
but the machinations of hell prevailed. 

Who started the idea I know not; but in the 


travellers’ entertainment. 43 

midst of my preparations for departure, I was 
surprised -with a visit from a man, who introduced 
himself as a committee of one, authorized to invite 
me, in the name of the town, to enter the lists for a 
strife of musical powers, the proceeds of the enter¬ 
tainment to be given to the poor. The idea pleased 
me ; but who was to be my competitor ? He politely 

informed me that Mr. S-had consented to sustain 

that relation to me. The hated obstacle to my hap¬ 
piness ! But I would not shrink. I was confident 1 
could overshadow him. I signified my approval of 
the plan, and my acceptance of the invitation, and 
consequently deferred my setting out on the antici¬ 
pated journey for the time being. 

Still the struggle within me continued. It took 
away my ambition, and impaired my voice. To 
such an extent did it thus operate on me, that I was 
at the point of withdrawing myself from the antici¬ 
pated musical strife altogether, when the following 
singular circumstance transpired. 

Some time had elapsed since my last interview 
with Emily, and I had pretty well settled into the 
conviction that she was quite indifferent to me, and 
my consuming passion. One close of day, as I was 


44 


GKEEN MOUNTAIN 


sitting by the window, watching the fading of 
the glorious autumnal twilight, a little boy was 
announced. I called him to my side, and he gave 
me a letter. I did not know the hand-writing of the 
superscription, but opened it with trembling haste, 
suspecting who the author was. Glancing at the end, 
1 saw it was from the cruel Emily. Yet, the letter 
did not surprise me, as did the contents thereof. I 
read it twice, and reflected upon it some time, before 
I could rest satisfled it was not all a dream. The 
letter was as follows; I can repeat it word for word— 


“ My Very Dear Friend :—I know you are unhappy. I know 
you are offended with me. If you knew my heart, you w^ould 
believe me when I say, you are angry without a cause. They 
tell me I am a strange being. Perhaps I am. They tell me I am 
incapable of the passion of love. Perhaps I am. It is true, I have 
often wished I could have been so made, that I could have the 
friendship without the love of men. I know not what to do. I 
have no objections to marrying ; but I must not make an enemy by 

it. Mr. S- has made a declaration similar to that which you 

have twice made. What shall I do? I prize you both very 
highly. 1 cannot marry either of you at the expense of the other’s 
friendship. A happy suggestion came to my mind to-day. The 
papers announce that you are to test your musical capacities in a 
friendly strife. The one who succeeds may appropriate me as his 
trophy. Will you consent to it ? Can you consent to it, and remain 
friendly if disappointed ? I know well that you both love me very 



TEAVKLLEK3" ENTERTAINMENT. 


45 


much. I hope I am worthy of your loves. They tell me disap¬ 
pointed lovers are the worst of enemies. Do you believe it ? Can 
you, if the issue should be against you, set an example to the 
contrary? I am unhappy. I wish you would consent to this. If 
you triumph, I will be your wife; if you fail, I will yet be your 
friend. 

Emily. 

“P. S. I have sent a duplicate of this to Mr. S.” 

Oh, how ardently did I consent to this arrange¬ 
ment! I knew the prize would he mine, and 
that my thorny pilgrimage would be crowned 
with a triumphant entry into the paradise of all 
my earthly hopes. I briefly acquainted Emily 
with my acquiescence in what she proposed; and 
set about preparing myself for the trial, the issue 
of which was to be of such vital importance to me. 

Great excitement prevailed in the city. From 
our known talents, and the stimulus the occa¬ 
sion would afford, the music-loving confidently 
anticipated a glorious treat. 

At length, the day closed that was to usher 
in the night of—my destiny. We were to sing 
.alternately, occupying three hours in all; the 
decision to be passed by a committee, appointed 
for that purpose. 

At the time announced for the beginning, I 


46 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


entered the crowded hall; and as the cheers of 
the expectant throng died away, I felt as though 
I would risk my life upon the result, so confi¬ 
dent was I of success. My competitor Tvas already 
there; and as I turned to take a seat upon the 
stage, I caught a glimpse of the fair enchantress, 
far back in the dense multitude. That inspired 
me anew. I was impatient to begin. The singing 
commenced,—my rival opening the performance. 
He sang a beautiful song, about the coming of 
some happy day, when heaven would descend to 
earth, and all should feel the fiow of praise and 
adoration welling in the heart, a living, eternal 
tide of tearless beatitude; and as he wandered 
among the mazes of the intricate, yet rapturous 
melody, I could not help but be conscious of a 
new tone in his young voice—a development 
which I had not looked for, and which annoyed 
me very much. 

I saw the audience sway with his growing 
energy. And when the last sweet trill melted away 
like an embodied sound, floating far into the deep, 
limitless sky, and I saw the rapt listeners pale 
with exquisite pleasure, my heart for a moment sank 


TKAVELLERS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 47 

within me. I followed him, and sang as I had 
never sung before; and though I was enthusiasti¬ 
cally applauded, I could plainly see that I failed 
to produce that deep effect which accompanied 
my antagonist’s effort. He sang again. Again he 
sat down "without cheers, so rapt was the audi¬ 
ence. My second attempt was more successful; 
but I had what seemed an Orpheus to contend 
with. I became desperate. Having the closing 
song, I chose the ballad which I had sung at 
my first interview with Emily. The closing verses 
spoke the real feeling of my intensely agitated 
heart. Tliey were the words of a lover, in utter 
despair. I gave entirely away to the tide of feeling, 
and had the satisfaction of producing that voiceless 
effect, which I desired. But it was a poor satis¬ 
faction. I knew very well that my rival had on 
the whole, triumphed; and I passed a sleepless 
night, harrowed with terrible presentiments. In 
the morning, I was waited upon by a delegate 
from the committee, and presented with a sealed 
note, without remarks. I knew its contents; 
I needed not to read them. I seized my hat, 
and went forth beneath the smile of that serene 


48 


(5REEN MOrNTATN 


autumnal morning, cursing my God, and wishing 
I could die. Life from a spread of flowers, and 
tuneful groves, bounded with a horizon of warm 
beauty, was suddenly, like a change in a dream, 
transformed into a bleak, rock-bound, fog-mantled 
dungeon, without hope. 

I strolled along the creek, where I had wan¬ 
dered the spring before, venting the pent agony 
of my spirit in groans and lamentations. The 
flmt gush of tearful emotion past, the sickening 
thought, that another was soon to enjoy what I 
had so lately looked upon as mine, took possession 
of me, and with it that shadow^ like the first wave 
of insanity. Murder was in my heart. If it had 
been merely in regard to Emily, that he had 
succeeded, I think honor would have deterred me 
from interfering; but he had, innocently, to be 
sure, yet that I did not consider, cast a shade 
upon my reputation as a singer. It stung like 
a viper, and I believe clenched my shadowy pur¬ 
pose. “He shall not enjoy her,” I said aloud, 
and smote the air. I afterwards thought, as my 
mind coldly settled upon a plan, “I shall but 
die of my most cruel disappointment. If justice 



* It was a romantic place, a favored spot, and it liua Ijeen iiiude clear an ’, 
pleasant by the unsolicited labor of Mike, and he had done it out of pure love of 
doing good to one who had spent hours, days, weeks, months, if all the hours were 
counted, in teaching him lessons that he could not learn at the old log school- 
house, down by hemlock pond.—P aob 4S. 











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travellers’ entertainment. 49 

find me out, and I perisli, it will be but a coveted 
period to a life surcharged with woes.” Miserable, 
short-sighted youth! how little didst thou count 
the cost of thy insane purpose! The only conso¬ 
lation, or palliation there is, is that I did not 
work alone. The fiends of deepest hell were my 
abettors. 

My unsuspecting victim left town that morning, 
BO I was informed on my return, to visit his 
mother—he was a widow’s son—a short distance 
away, intending to return in the evening. That 1 
might not be suspected, I made a show of illness 
to two or three of my young friends, and went 
home early in the evening, ostensibly to retire to 
bed. Arrived at home, I provided myself with 
an excellent pistol, which I had owned for some 
time, and was perfectly accustomed to, and went 
forth on my bloody mission. I took a round-about 
way, and reached the road by which I knew he 
must return, about three miles from the city limits. 

It was a solitary place. The road skirted a huge 
precipitous rock, for about a quarter of a mile. 
On the side opposite the upper rock, was another 
precipice of considerable depth, up which came 
3 • 


50 


GJREEN MOUKTAm 


the murmur of a foaming stream below. Here, 
in the shadow of the rock, I posted myself. The 
night was clear and windy. It was a mournful 
wind, and might have prophesied to me, had I 
listened. But conscience was stifled in the raging 
of the fiendish • passions within. I heard only the 
sounds of hissing scorn from the world, at my late 
failure, and the sounds of amatory endearment 
between the angel captor of my soul, and another, 
1 grated my teeth, and clenched the cold, passive 
instrument of death. I heard the sound of horse’s 
hoofs. I knew that S-had gone out on horse¬ 

back. The terrible excitement under which I 
labored, sharpened every sense, and I felt that it was 
he. I threw off my cloak, and placed my right 
elbow upon a projection of tlie rock, that my aim 
might be sure. My position was hardly assumed 
when he came in sight, his horse galloping leisurely. 
On he came, so near that I clearly recognized him. 
The horses ears were pointed towards me. “How 
is the time,” I fiercely whispered, for conscience 
pulled hard at my arm, and—O, my God! I tell 
it not willingly—discharged the deadly weapon. 
The horse stopped suddenly still; the rider bent 



TRAVELLERS ENTERTAINMENT. 


51 


low over its neck, clinging by the mane. The shot 
was fatal. I saw him fall heavily to the ground. 
The spell was broken. The enormity of the deed 
glared at me like a wandering spectre. I hur¬ 
riedly left the spot, getting home, I hardly knew 
how. I entered my room, and locked the door, and 
sat down to reflect upon what I had done. But 
I could not reflect. I could not remain in my 
chair; I could only walk the floor beating my breast 
in the agony of remorse. As I walked, I felt a 
death-like chill creeping along my nerves. I looked 
at my hands; they were blue and stiff like a corpse’s. 
The lamp, and then the windows multipled; the 
walls danced and whirled; the floor rose beneath 
me; a dark rush, like diving into deep, still 
water, and I was lost to consciousness of external 
things. I came back to this world amidst the 
smell of drugs, and the close, heavy air of a 
sick-room. I had been very ill several days,— 
delirious, they told me, raving almost continually. 
Had I disclosed the awful secret? How could I 
know. I told my nurse that I had had a painful 
dream of killing a man; and asked her if I had 
done injury to any one. She assured me to the con- 


52 


GBEEN MOUNTAIN 


trarj, and bade me be quiet Being stronger the 
next day, my father came in to see me; gravely 
and feelingly he told me of the diabolical murder 
that had been committed; his words were keen 
arrows shot unerringly through my heart. With 
remarkable self-possession, I asked him some 
questions concerning it, and the matter passed by. 

As day by day I arose from my prostration, I felt 
the communion with my past life severed, and the 
gory deed with which my hands were imbrued 
coming out in dark relief, a haunting, avenging 
shape. 

Many weeks crept monotonously away before I 
could again go forth into the sunshine and the fields; 
and when I did, the former was but a mockery, and 
the latter white with the mantle of winter. Like 
my heart were all things ; but unlike that they had 
the embryo of spring. Tlie undying worm within 
fed upon my returning vitality, and my recovery 
was slow, and sometimes doubtful. It was agreed 
to, among my physicians, that a sojourn in some 
milder climate would be beneficial to me. Accord¬ 
ingly I renewed my preparations for a journey to 
the Continent. My destination was hTaples, whereat 



TRAVELLEES’ ENTERTAINMENT. 63 

in due time, and without accident, I arrived. Here 
was a new world for me. Diverted by the multitude 
of new and interesting objects that surrounded me, 
I rapidly regained my health, and even my old 
buoyancy of spirits. My voice returned; and 
intoxicated with the applause it brought me, and 
being surrounded with all that could fascinate, I 
gradually lost sight of the demon that pursued me.— 
I forgot that I was a murderer. 

I remained in Haples three years. At last its 
pleasures became stale to me, and I longed for 
home. Having no other guide than inclination, I 
obeyed it, and went back to England. My father 
had grown old very much. He wept, and embraced 
me; which I was pained to behold, for in him it was 
an indication of dotage. The extraordinary activity 
and privation of his early life had prematurely 
exhausted the fountain, and now grey, bent, and 
emaciated, he was tottering rapidly to the grave. 
The hope of meeting and embracing me once more 
had for months supported him. How that his wish 
was gratified, he sank soon, and was no more. He 
died blessing his only son, and calling upon God to 
grant him a long life of usefulness and happiness. 


'54 GEEEN MOUNTAIN 

I was an orphan. My new sorrow for a time 
hindered the return of remorse. But it was soon 
brought back with redoubled fury by learning that 
an innocent man had, in my absence, been arrested 
and executed for the deed of which I alone was 
guilty. Oh! the tearless, scathing agony that burnt 
deep into my writhing heart! Yet there was no 
help. Pardon from on High I could not ask, and 
men knew not my guilt, knew not my wretchedness, 
to forgive or to sympathize. I was alone. Oh! how 
dismally alone! 

Why it was I have never been able to explain; 
but true it is, that from the horrid depth into which 
I had fallen I looked to Emily. I loved her then. 
Oh I I had never ceased to love her. Could she be 
mine, I thought; and could we together go to some 
place remote from this, where things around could, 
no more speak to my heart of its hellish crime, I 
would yet be happy and willing to live. 

I wrote to her: yes, this bloody right hand that 
had deprived her of a noble and devoted husband 
wrote to her, asking her to be mine. Many days I 
feverishly awaited a reply. It came, a barbed 
flaming dart. It was but one line, firmly written. 


travellers’ entertainment. 


55 


“I cannot be the wife of a murderer.” She knew 
mj secret, and had kept it. Could I have loved an 
angel from Heaven more? Could I have feared 
more the arm of Omnipotent Justice ? 

Thus was the last hope crushed, the last tie that 
bound me to the land of my fathers severed. She 
who had been the innocent cause of my wasting, 
undying misery, who had once shone so warmly 
into my soul, had withdrawn herself far from me 
for ever. She was to be thenceforth as a star 
mirrored upon my turbulent soul, a cold, scattered 
brightness. 

I became a voluntary exile. I went to Germany 
There the new climate, and novel circumstances, like 
the fascinations of Haples, soothed me for a time, 
and I began again to hope. I strove to forget 
entirely my past life. And that I might succeed, 
I adopted the language and customs of the country. 
For five years I neither read, spoke, nor thought an 
English word voluntarily. At the end of that time, 
I had made such progress in my new way of life, 
that I was able to mingle freely in society. My 
talents as a vocalist shone out brilliantly again ; and 
they, coupled with my great, wealth, gave me high 


56 


GKEEN MOUNTAIN 


standing. Still the bloody deed haunted me, coming 
out more bold as things became familiar around me. 
I thought again of wandering. But a new attraction 
appeared. A young countess, a widow, beautiful, 
and adorned with all the graces that art could 
bestow, and of a disposition mild and melancholy, 
tender and loving, became a member of the Society 
to the entertainment of which I often contributed. 
She too was a singer; and in the mazy realm of 
music we approached one another. I loved her: 
not as I fii*st loved—as purely, but not so rapturously. 
My soul seized upon her as one drowning seizes the 
tendered object of salvation. In her was passion 
deep as the sea. Her marriage had been one of 
convenience; and she had never loved before. She 
gave herself to me, and we were married. In her 
loving embrace I again ceased to feel for a fleecing 
period that I was a murderer. Life again opened 
before me a shining vista; and I could look back 
with a feeling akin to deflance. The clear moon told 
a new tale; the mournful winds lost their burden, 
their moaning rehearsal of that fatal night, and took 
the tone which had charmed -my spirit in childhood. 
Time cast off his chains, and took the soft, swift 


travellers’ entertainment. 57 

pinions of the dove; weeks became as days, and 
days as hours. I was happy; yet not completely 
happy. There was a dread, like the heavy sound of 
a distant storm at sea,—deep, underlying all—a 
dread of the future. 

The anniversary of our nuptials was made glad 
with the birth of a child—a daughter. This circum¬ 
stance weaned me yet more from my past life,— 
dimmed yet more the hideous remembrance. 

Another year bore me smoothly and rapidly on. 
My little girl, now a sweet blue-eyed prattler, 
could call me father. Father! Why did it so affect 
me? I well remember the thrill of agony that 
sacred word first from her smiling lips sent through 
my soul. I withdrew the hand which would have 
patted her ruddy cheek—that hand was stained with 
a brother’s blood! I gasped and trembled with the 
depth of my emotion; and the little cherub ran 
frightened from me. 

But it was not long so. It was but a passing throe 
of dormant conscience. 

Another year was added to my illusive dream. 

One day my little treasure climbed to my knee, and 
told me her mother was sick. I started as one struck 


58 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN 


by tbe assassin’s blade. Directly a domestic came in 
and confirmed tbe artless utterance of tbe little 
lisper. In a moment I was at ber side. Sbe was 
really very ill. Sbe bad been suddenly attacked 
with a malignant and fatal epidemic with wbicb tbe 
city was then being scourged, and from a knowledge 
of ber constitution I knew sbe must die. I sent for 
a physician, wbo gravely confirmed my awful convic¬ 
tion—awful! for wbat bad sbe not been to me ? to 
wbat was I now to awake ? Can you not save 
ber?” I wailed beseecbingly. Tbe kind and sympa¬ 
thizing physician pointed with tears to tbe mark of 
death. There was no hope. I felt its feeble glimmer 
perish within me, and overwhelmed I sank in a long, 
deep swoon. __ 

As I came out of the rayless void, a grim spirit 
seemed to whisper in my ear, “ The murderer has 
dreamed bis dream of bliss. Henceforth, shall be 
toiling among lacerating rocks, and blinding light¬ 
nings, until the great gulf of destruction swallow him 
up for ever!” I resisted the kind efforts that would 
restore me to this world, and longed to die. Life 
was worse than worthless to me. I stood as one 
might stand upon the skirts of a limitless desert, 


TRAVELLERS ENTERTAINMENT. 


59 


while vengeful furies urged on behind to lash him 
with their serpent scourges forward for ever upon 
the arid waste. "When they told me she was dead, 
my mind refused the guidance of my will, and I 
howled like a frightened maniac. 

In a few hours nature so far prevailed over the 
tortures of my spirit, that I was sufficiently recovered 
to visit the chamber of death. 

I stood by her dead body, and took up my child. 

It was then I thought of my own childhood; of the 
story of my birth, and what the sailor said; of the 
tiger, and cursed the ball that saved my life; of 
how my mother died, and my father wept, pressing 
me to his heavy heart; and as my mind dwelt 
tenderly on that, tears came to my burning eyes, and 
I wept long and freely. 

A few dismal days passed dimly on, and she was 
buried. When the always sad—to me trebly— 
mournful ceremony was over, I returned to my 
desolated home firmly resolved upon self-destruction. 
But when I saw my child, and felt the beams of her 
sunny soul, my will swerved, and I put away for the 
time the dark resolve. But that frail support to my " 
sinking spirit was not spared me long, Ere the grass 


60 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


grew upon the grave of the mother, the lonely— 
wandering little innocent was laid by her side. 

Again utterly alone, I would have persevered in my 
former purpose. But I had grown thoughtful, and 
shrank from passing that bourn whence there can be 
no return. I sought relief from intoxicating drinks. 
I drank deeply. From drinking I fell to gambling, 
and my wealth soon melted away, leaving me in a 
few months penniless. My position in society lost, 
I mingled with outcasts the most forlorn of all, and 
walked familiarly with villains, yet not myself a 
villain, ; the one great crime that had thrust me 
into this terrible abyss, had been the rash deed of 
unthinking youth. I could not commit another. 
The awful remembrance debarred me. 

At first the stimulating draught had quieted me ; 
but now it ceased to befriend. Tlie avenging shape 
kept pace with every pulsation of my weary heart, 
stabbing without mercy. It mingled with the 
ravings of my drunkenness, and glared hotly upon 
me in the silent hours of solitude. 

Lower, and lower I sank, until all men spurned 
me, and I went aside like a wounded brute to die. 
1 lay in an open hovel, It was a cold winter night. I 



travellers’ entertainment. 61 

lay upon the bare, frozen earth, and waved my hand 
in the keen air, and blessed it for the numbing frosts 
it bore to freeze my blood, so earnest was my longing 
for death—^for a period to my innumerable and hope¬ 
less woes. As I waved it there a warm hand grasped 
it, and I was addressed in English. So long had I 
avoided that language, it sounded like a foreign 
tongue .to me. In my wildness I thought that I was 
dead, and that it was my father who addressed me. 
The voice told me to get up. I could not obey. 
Two men then carefully lifted and bore me to a 
carriage, and I was conveyed to a warm room, where 
cordials were administered to me, and I fell into a 
comfortable slumber, from which, after a few hours, 
I awoke considerably renewed. The presence of 
Englishmen was like introducing me to the home of 
my youth, and—strange aberration—^it sent a flush of 
joy through my soul. 

Directly I was informed of the circumstances 
which had led to my rescue. 

A bachelor uncle of mine, on the maternal side, 
had lately died, leaving by will a small annuity to 
me. Inquiry had been made concerning my where¬ 
abouts ; and after diligent search I had been traced 


02 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


to GeiTnany. There they found me as I have 
described. Whence the scrupulous honesty which 
had actuated the apparently disinterested adminis¬ 
trators, I never troubled myself much to discover. 
Perhaps, my mother from paradise accompanied 
them. I have often thought so. Yet, perhaps, it is 
only superstition. But I do love to think of my 
mother, my father, my wife, my child, as. looking 
down kindly and lovingly from their beatitude, upon 
the wretched wanderer. 

Under the kind administerings of my new friends, 
I soon recovered my usual strength, and with it, a 
decided change came over me, which was not 
altogether owing to my altered situation and return¬ 
ing health. I had a kind of half consciousness 
that I had in part atoned for my crime and was 
forgiven. It gave me cheerfulness for a time, and I 
readily consented to return to England. 

Accordingly, in company with my two friends, I 
embarked for London. As I approached the well- 
remembered shores, my gloom returned. I strove to 
resist it in vain.. It increased upon me as I walked 
along the familiar streets. The places hallowed in 
my recollection by the innocence of my childhood. 


travellers’ entertainment. 63 

i*iid youth seemed to look with sadness upon me. I 
did not dare to renew my old social relations, and 
cared not to form new ones. The two friends who 
had accompanied me from Germany, separated from 
me soon, and went away to their homes. I sup¬ 
ported my increasing loneliness for a while, loth to 
venture again upon distant wanderings; hut at last 
became convinced that no other course would save 
me from intolerable wretchedness. Having come 
into full possession of the annuity, I took passage for 
this country, where I arrived a little upwards of two 
years since. I seek the turmoil of large cities to 
divert the current that ever rushes darkly up to 
overwhelm me. Yet, sometimes a tender melan¬ 
choly, soothing like the singing voices of angels— 
Oh I I know it is from those who love me—takes 
possession of me, and then I seek such wilds as these. 

This is my story, gentlemen. The pain it has 
given me to relate it, and which I have tried in vain 
to avoid manifesting, may be to you a pledge of its 
truth. Alas 11 would it were but idle fiction. 


64 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN 


CHAPTEH in. 

When the narrator had ceased speaking, he 
covered his withered face with his withered hands, 
breathing heavily. The rest of us were all deeply 
moved, some shedding tears, the jolly-looking bald- 
headed man quite profusely, being obliged to use his 
pocket-handkerchief. For several minutes, no one 
seemed disposed to interrupt the tide of sympathetic 
sadness which prevailed. At last the president 
remarked abruptly, smiting his thigh—“ Gentlemen, 
I don’t know how you view it, but I say this is rather 
too serious. It chokes me, I vow ! I’ve heard hard 
stories in my day, stories that made rough-skinned 
juries cry; but I’m inclined to think this is a little 
the hardest yet. I propose the card be turned. 
Let’s try again. Let’s see,” looking around, “who is 
to tell the next one ? I mo— but stop, I forgot. I’m 
president. Let some one motion to the desired 
effect.” 


TEAVELLERS ENTERTAINMENT. 


65 


I motion,” said the Quaker, “ that the president 
himself favor us with the next effort.” 

“ That’s taking hold of the bridle-rein, my dear 
sir,” responded that functionary. “I see sir, you 
haven’t forgot our dispute an hour or two since. You 
want to be revenged, eh ?” 

“ I second the motion,” put in one of the farmer¬ 
like looking men, excited. 

“ Moved and seconded, then. I see it is inevitable 
—but, by-the-by, I have doubts of the regularity of 
this proceeding; at all events you should allow a 
fellow chance to stump it a little, particularly when 
he wants to be defeated.” 

“ Go on sir,” playfully commanded the Quaker. 
“ Do your duty.” 

The motion was put, and unanimously carried. 
Whereupon the president arose, and with a loud 
voice demanded if any one would volunteer to treat 
the company to cigars. 

‘‘Cheerfully” said I, also rising, “I am yet 
indebted to you all.” The little dry man remained 
apparently unconscious of what was going on; but 
the rest silently acquiesced, and we were soon seated 
again, industriously smoking. 


66 


GREEN mountain 


You still insist, do you?” asked the president of 
the Quaker. 

‘‘Indeed I do. Have you ever had a doubt 
that the majority can rule in a Kepublican govern¬ 
ment ?” 

“Well, then, prepare. It may take me some 
time ; and as its getting late, I want all to assume a 
position in which you may fall asleep without inter¬ 
rupting the thread of my narrative, if sleep should 
overtake you, you understand.” 

In order to humor the joke, and not knowing 
how much unlike a joke it might turn out to be, 
each one adjusted himself in the most comfortable 
position allowed by circumstances, and, with eyes 
expectant, beheld the upright president, who, seeing 
the coast was clear, commenced as follows:— 

Our unfortunate friend here, has given us a 
general autobiography. To entertain us, he has 
drawn from his own experience. For me to follow 
him with an empty bar-room yarn, would be unge 
nerous to him, and would probably grate harshly 
upon your ears. I will not do it. I, too, will 
tell you of what I have both seen and heard. Yet 
less generous than our unhappy friend, I shall 


travellers’' entertainment. 67 

confine my narration to six or seven years of 
my life. These years, though usually that most 
uninteresting lapse between boyhood and manliood, 
have been to me by far the most eventful which 
I have lived. Sadly eventful, alas! By the by, I 
complained of the seriousness of the story we have 
just heard. If I enter upon this rehearsal, I don’t 
know that I shall better the matter j perhaps you 
do not feel as I did in regard to that story. I will 
take it for granted, that you do not, without 
asking you, and go on, having started, though I 
do wish I had something more cheerful to relate. 
But to the tale, or we shall never reach the end. 

I was a hard boy, as you may guess from my 
make, perverse and boisterous. My father was a 
farmer, and my mother a farmeress, both of them 
contented to plough, sow, reap, and bring forth. 
And being industrious, they ploughed much, sowed 
much, and being under the immediate smile of 
Providence, they reaped abundant harvests, and 
brought forth many. I was the oldest of the flock— 
and a flock it was, except myself, who only wore 
the outer vestments. I budded and expanded 
under the fiery wrath and indignation of my 


68 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


father, who, being reserved and taciturn, and also 
very methodic, found me ever a buffeting thorn. 
I increased lustily, however, under the gleaming 
orbs, and sharp pruning tongue, and at the age of 
fourteen, embraced the notion that I was a man. 
Concerning this, my father and I fell out more malig¬ 
nantly than ever. But I cherished my new-blown 
dignity, and would not yield. The up-shot of it 
was, I clandestinely left the parental roof. It,was a 
bad move, and I found it out very soon. Having 
never been away from home over night, and 
scarcely over a meal before, I had not imbibed 
the idea of providing for the future; and dis¬ 
covered the very first day, that my capital was 
altogether inadequate to the investment. The first 
twenty-four hours consumed my money, and 1 

was thrown upon my spontaneous resources, which 

% 

did not prove very fruitful. However, with a piece 
of bread begged here, and a bowl of milk begged 
there, I managed to keep my stomach tolerably 
quiet, and my feet comparatively active, until I had 
put a hundred miles between me and my old 
home. I landed, and stranded, the tenth morning 
from launching—speaking after the manner of the 


travellers’ entertainment. 


69 


sea—in the city of ITew York. Here my manhood 
suffered great depreciation. I became immediately 
so completely merged and submerged, that I lost 
my identity,—so much so, that a little hocus-jpocus 
would have convinced me that I had no existence 
at all, except in my eyes. As night came on, 
I began to get hungry. As soon as I began to 
think of food, I lost interest in everything else, 
and directed every sense and energy to finding 
some; and no wonder. I had tasted of nothing but 
my own spittle, and some pine splinters, since the 
night before. While bent vigorously upon the 
one thing needful, to me just then, I became 
infested with an exceedingly painful doubt. How 
was I to obtain possession of food, when I should 
have found it ? I had not one cent, and my clothes 
were too dirty to offer in exchange. But neither 
did the doubt, nor the speculations that followed 
it, at all appease my appetite; and in view of the 
imperative necessity, I finally concluded that if 
from what I hnew the case was doubtful, there 
was a great deal I did not know, and perhaps 
amongst that might be found means of escape from 
tlie present difficulty. Comforted, I wandered on. 


70 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


At length, fearing that I should not be able even 
to find food by my own unaided efforts, I accosted 
a ragged, dirty urchin in size about four years old. 
“ Bub,” said I patronizingly, “ can you tell me where 
I can get something to eat ?” 

‘‘Bub!” he responded, swelling like a little toad. 
“ Do you go to h—1, or I’ll h'uh ye,” looking fiercely 
and steadily up into my face. I slowly inserted my 
hands in my pantaloons pockets, and wonderingly 
returned his gaze. 

“ It’s something you want to eat, heh ?” he contin¬ 
ued. “ Look straight across this here street, will ye ?” 

I looked. 

“ Do you see tnat are sign, there ?” 

I had seen it before he asked me. It read in fla¬ 
ming red letters, in semi-circle, high on a post, “ City 
Eating House.” Strange as it may seem, still it is a 
fact, that, so slim was my worldly experience, and 
particularly the city part thereof, I interpreted that 
sign to signify an establishment kept and provided by 
the city for the benefit of those who could not pay. 
Fully possessed with this idea, I crossed the street, 
and boldly entering, made known my voracious want 

“Of course, sir; with all dispatch, sir. Sit down, 


TKAVELLERS' ENTERTAINMENT. 


71 


sir—at this table, sir. Any preference in dishes, 
sir?’’ 

Good Lord ! such politeness I It astounded me. 
I thought I had landed in paradise, surely. I thanked 
the genteel individual with considerable feeling, and 
allowed him to conduct me to a small round table, in 
a curtained recess, for the moment forgetting why I 
was there. 

j 

‘‘ Any preference in dishes ?” repeated the obsequi¬ 
ous gentleman. 

I had none. In a few minutes a most tempting 
display covered the table, which I proceeded to de¬ 
molish—not the table, but the fixins—with inexpres¬ 
sible relish. I ate long and fiercely ; and came out, 
at last, appeased, with my face very red and greasy. 
I walked up and down the long room, wondering at 
the benevolence of those who kept so splendid an es¬ 
tablishment for the indigent. 

After completing my survey, I very properly 
thought about finding a place to sleep. I could see 
no chance for it there, and I turned my steps towards 
the door. Just as I reached it I was touched gently 
on the shoulder, and had my attention directed to a 
counter, with a man behind it, in a distant corner of 


72 GREEN MOUNTAIN 

tlie room. The man behind the counter was beck¬ 
oning to me; and with a sense of doing some one 
a service, I went towards him. I approached and 
leaned against the counter. 

“ Two shillings, sir,” said he, without looking at me. 

I thought he must be addressing some one else, and 
looked around to see who it was. 

“ Two shillings, sir,” he said again, looking at me. 

“Me ?” I asked ; “I haven’t got any money.” 

“ 'No money? You young devil, you; do you sup¬ 
pose you are to eat your supper at our expense? 
Why, what do you mean, you infernal scapegrace I 
Call the policeman, Jim.” 

Kow I did not know positively what • policeman’ 
meant; but guessed. “ I did not mean to do any 
hann, sir; indeed I did not,” I commenced, beseech- 
ingly. 

“ No words, you young scamp. Ko getting up a 
booboo, here.” 

Jim left ostensibly for a policeman, and I was left 
in a dismal fix, that’s certain. While, in the midst 
of this dilemma—^both horns of which, as it were, 
thrust under my fifth ribs—an old sailor slid up to 
the counter, and wiping his greasy lips on his jacket- 


travellers’ entertainment. 


73 


sleeve, demanded the bearing of that are reckoning 
o’ yourn.” While the score was being reckoned, he 
looked up, then around a great way off, as though 
searching for some distant object, then down, and his 
eyes settled on me. 

“ What’s in the wind, lad,” said he, compassion¬ 
ately ; aground ?” 

I chokingly told him I was out of money, and they 
were going to put me in jail. 

“ From the country, I reckon. Great way from 
port, perhaps ?” 

I answered meekly, “Yes.” 

He looked up, and then away to a great distance, 
again. “ Say, you there, behind there, reckon in this 
lad’s damage,” at the same time throwing a gold 
coin upon the counter. The change was counted out, 
and the old sailor, grabbing up one handful and put¬ 
ting it in his own pocket, drew off the remainder into 
the other hand, and opening one of my trowsers pock¬ 
ets, shook it in there. 

“ How, lad, bear up alongside, and we’ll go aboard.” 

The phraseology was so entirely new, and so radi¬ 
cally differed from what I was accustomed to hearing, 
that it conveyed no definite idea to my undei-standing, 
4 


74 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


wliich fact must have been manifested by my conn 
tenance, for I said nothing. 

“Poor fellow !” he continued. “You don’t under¬ 
stand. I mean, will ye go with me?” Ilis manner 
had inspired me with confidence in him, and thinking 
he might assist me in getting a place to sleep, I fol¬ 
lowed him. It was quite dark, and as we went along 
he took hold of my hand. Assured by his kindness, 
1 ventured to ask him where he was going. 

“ On board for the night. Ye must go with me, 
and I’ll give ye a hammock.” 

I informed him I had been to supper. 

“ Hammock, hammock, lad ; a place to sleep. Bless 
you ! I knowed ye had been to supper. That was what 
the dog behind there was snarling about, wasn’t 
it.” 

Depressed with shame at my ignorance, I made no 
further remarks, and we soon came to the wharf. 

“ Keep a steady lookout as ye climb this here,” cau¬ 
tioned my guide, as we walked up a narrow plank, 
leading to the midships of a huge merchant vessel, 
darkly looming against the sky. I took his caution 
to heart, and carefully ascending, found myself for 
the first time in a ship. My first general impression 


TRAVEIXER8 ENTERTAINMENT. 


75 


was of being in a grocery of indefinite extent— 
such piles of boxes, and barrels, and sacks; such a 
profusion of what seemed to me tar, molasses, and 
flour on the floor; such a redolence of indistinguish¬ 
able smells ;—I was quite bewildered and impressed 
with awe. I followed the sailor passively, who con¬ 
ducted me along a winding way, walled narrowly in 
with innumerable boxes and sacks, to a low apart¬ 
ment which he introduced to me as the “ steerage.’^ 
Here I had ocular demonstration of what a hammock 
was ; and blushing at the recollection of my igno¬ 
rance, I submitted to the kind direction of my pro¬ 
tector, and was soon asleep. 

I was aroused at break of day by the old sailor— 
whom I shall call Senk, for that was the name he 
went by—^who, when he perceived I was fully awake, 
proceeded to admonish me as to what my future con¬ 
duct must be—^first, however, ascertaining my precise 
relations to existing circumstances and to the world 
at large. 

“Ye must say ‘sir’ to everybody that speaks to 
ye. Be most devilish civil, and out o’ the way. The 
officers are a most damned impudent set. They’d 
kick ye overboard in a minute if they’d happen to 


76 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


stumble or slip, and you’d laugh the least bit or 
snicker. And be sure ye always be very particu¬ 
lar to say ‘ Captain Smith ’ to the man ye hear me 
call so. Kow mind that; it’s very important. I want 
you to stay on board, and be a sailor. You can’t do 
better. I brought a fellow on here five years ago, 
and there ain’t a better sailor ever climbed the rigg¬ 
ing. Wouldn’t ye like to be a sailor, lad, eh?” he 
concluded, getting up a little sham enthusiasm for the 
occasion. 

I had not left home with the intention of going to 
sea. But the experience of the previous night had 
disgusted me with the city, and between my disgust 
and a certain vague inclination to visit distant lands 
I came suddenly and decidedly to the conclusion that 
I would be a sailor. Senk, who had scrutinized my 
countenance in the most lively manner during the 
short cogitation that had passed within me, saw in¬ 
stantly my decision, and without waiting for me to 
speak, burst forth rapturously— 

“ sir. I knowed you’d do it. ISTow come 

along wi’ me on the hurrican deck, and mind ye do 
jest as I tole ye.” 

I submitted to his leading, and we went up on deck. 


travellers’ entertainment. 77 

As we were walking slowly along, a little bare grey 
head with spectacles, popped np from a square hole 
about three steps off from us. 

‘‘ On board eh ?” it said, adding a pair of broad 
shoulders to it. 

Ay, ay, sir. Captain Smith,” promptly responded 
Senk. “ Been on over night.” 

“Well, that’s strange. Got kicked out for disor¬ 
derly conduct somewhere, I suppose, and couldn’t 
stay ashore. Thank God! we’re to leave to morrow.” 

While giving utterance to these amiable remarks, 
the head and shoulders, which Senk had called “ Cap¬ 
tain Smith,” built themselves up heavily, and revealed 
a quite unsymmetrical foundation, based with a pair 
of remarkably large feet. Fairly established on 
deck, he directly made a discovery. 

“ What have you got here, you old hull ?” 

“ A young lad in trouble, that 1 picked up ashore 
last night,” commenced Senk. 

“ I’ll warrant. You are always up to such foolery. 
Mighty benevolent at others’ expense! What do you 
expect to do here, young man ?” he continued, ad¬ 
dressing me, and evidently meaning no respect by the 
title. 


78 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN 


“ I don’t know, sir—C-Captain Smith, ah!” I 
emitted, borne down with awe. 

Though naturally bold, and inconsiderate, either of 
times or circumstances, when at home among the 
well-known cows, horses, and school-boys, I had seen 
so much in the short interval since leaving the paren¬ 
tal roof which demonstrated my own weakness, that 
I had not only lost every vestige of my supposed 
manhood, but had, as it were, been born again, and 
was scarcely advanced beyond infancy. My con¬ 
fusion was very great, which I suppose somewhat 
flattered the august Captain Smith, who went on to 
say, in a milder tone, after a few moments’ reflection, 

“ Do you want to go to sea ?” 

Eaising my eyes to the feet of the awful man, I • 
replied “ Yes,” forgetting to add the title until he com¬ 
menced speaking again, which caused an additional 
dash of confusion, so completely bewildering me that 
1 lost all he said, until he shifted his remarks to Senk. 

“ Take him below, Senk, and tell the steward I 
sent him.” 

Glad to get from the oppressive presence, I follow¬ 
ed Senk with alacrity. 

I found the steward, to whom Senk ceremoniously 


travellers’ entertainment. 79 

presented me, a large, heavy-looking gentleman of 
color. He had a mild, placid expression all over him, 
that made me feel quite at home. We directly fell 
into conversation, and became rapidly acquainted. 
He patiently pointed out my duties, and on my per¬ 
forming one of them successfully, he promptly dub¬ 
bed me “ Cabin Boy,” nicknaming me Phil, and I 
swore allegiance to him, and through him to the ship; 
and from that hour forth reckoned myself a sailor. 

The next day, in fulfillment of the gratefully ex¬ 
pressed prediction of Captain Smith, we set sail. 
The vessel was bound for Quilimane, on the eastern 
coast of Africa, and was heavily laden. The first 
three weeks after leaving the last American port were 
very monotonous. An annoying alternation of spas¬ 
modic winds and dead calms rendered our progress 
slow and uncertain. We had been out of sight of 
land about ten days, the great sea alone all around us, 
the sun rising and setting in it, the scattered clouds 
coming out of and disappearing in it,—when one 
morning at break of day those of us who Were sleep¬ 
ing were startled from our slumbers by the heavy roll 
of distant thunder. I jumped from my hammock, and 
went on deck. The whole aspect of things was 


80 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


changed. The solemn ocean had assumed a new, and it 
seemed to me ominous hue, and appeared smaller, like, 
I could not help thinking, a monstrous serpent con¬ 
tracted for a spring. In the western sky were new 
clouds, some of them thick and almost black, others 
tinged with the prismatic hues of a summer sunrise, 
and the clear blue sky was nowhere to be seen The 
atmosphere, too, was changed. It was heavy; and 
the scream of a sea-bird—^M^hence no one could tell 
—came painfully distinct to the ear. 

About sun an hour high. Captain Smith came on 
deck. A smart, east wind had sprung up since sun¬ 
rise, and we were making a long tack to the south¬ 
ward of our course, which was southeast, under full 
sail. He went aft, and with his long glass scanned 
the western sky very carefully several minutes. He 
then went to the wheel, and examined the ropes. 
Apparently satisfied with his examination, he next 
went forward, and shouted to the lookout aloft— 
“ Keep a sharp eye ahead, there, do you hear V' 

Ay, ay, sir.” 

Then taking a general survey from where he stood, 
of the vessel, he turned to Mr. Demt, the first mate, 
who, by the way, was a very obsequious, no-minded 


travellers’ entertainment. 81 

sort of individual, and said in a low, serious tone, 
“ We shall be a good hundred knots from this point 
before sundown, or some fathoms below low-water 
mark, I can tell you that.” 

“That’s my opinion. Captain Smith,” said Mr. 
Demt, looking towards the west. 

I beheld these significant manoeuvres, and listened 
to this remark of Captain Smith with the profoundest 
interest. Something awful was portending, I had no 
doubt, but of what it was, precisely, I had only a 
vague idea. To be sure, things looked ominously 
strange ; yet I had seen similar appearances on shore 
pass into a clear day, or into a dull three-days’ rain. 
Captain Smith’s conduct, however, could not be 
without a cause, thought I; and the recollection of 
what I had heard about storms at sea, coming up in 
this connection, shed some light and a good deal of 
dread into my mind. While I was yet undetermined 
how to set the matter down in my judgment, it 
thundered again, a long, low, heavy roll, as though 
it were under water, deep down, and rising with 
heavy sweeps to the surface. The clouds in the west 
grew rapidly thicker and more cumbrous, rising 
slowly, and sending out torn fragments, which^ reapliT 
4.* 


82 


GREEN MOENTAIN 


ing in long stretches far towards the east, began 
to darken the sun. Another deep roll of thunder, 
heavier, harsher than before, and the wind sud¬ 
denly ceased. The long pennant fell, and the huge 
sails flapped listlessly against the masts. Captain 
Smith, who had been a short time below, now came 
hurriedly on deck with a speaking trumpet in his hand. 

“ All hands into the rigging 1” he shouted fiercely. 
“ Up ! up ! every one of you, and work like devils. 
Furl every rag.” Then, turning to the first mate, he 
said—“ I fear this ought to have been done before. 
At all events we have not one minute to lose.” 

“ That’s my opinion. Captain Smith,” echoed the 
other. 

At this crisis I was beckoned below by the benign 
steward. In the unusual circumstances that were 
transpiring, I had forgotten my official duties, which 
I now hastened to dispatch, and came again on deck 
just in time to see the men hurrying from the bare 
masts and yards, like so many frightened pigeons 
from a dry tree, some flushed with agreeable expecta¬ 
tion, others pale with fear. 

The sky was now completely overcast, and every 
few moments lurid flashes filled the whole scene, while 


TKAVELLEKS’ ENTEIiTAmMP:NT. 83 

the deep, heavy thunder rolled almost continually. 
Absorbed in watching the movements on deck, I 
did not notice that Senk stood by me, until he said, 
grasping my shoulder with one hand rather harshly, 
and pointing with the other towards the west, “See 
there, lad.” I looked. There was a long streak of 
white extending to the right and left out of sight. It 
was rapidly approaching, and seemed to annihilate 
the sea as it came. “ What is that I exclaimed. A 
deep roar, faint, yet heavy, from the direction of the 
appearance answered me. It was the vanguard of the 
coming storm. I looked in Senk’s face. It was 
pallid. “ Are we going to be wrecked ?” said I, trem¬ 
bling with apprehension. 

“ I don’t know, lad,” he replied swallowing. 
“ That’s the worat looking storm Zever seen, I know; 
if we don’t founder, there’s a chance.” 

We both looked in silence a few moments at the 
awfully portentous object that was so rapidly and 
irresistibly nearing. Suddenly Senk started, and 
taking me by the hand said—Farewell! my lad. 
There’ll be no chance for words when that’s upon us 
If we go down, farewell!—ye’d better go below.” 

I don’t know why it was, hut I had an expeeding 


84 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


repugnance to going below, and therefore told Sent 
I would rather stay on deck. 

“ Hang on, then,” he said; “ ye think ye’ve been 
pulled ; but ye’ll find ye never was pulled so before.” 
With this he left me, but returned almost imme¬ 
diately with a lanyard.. 

“ If ye will stay up here, ye must be tied,” he 
said, leading me to a mast, and proceeding to make 
me fast to it. 

Hearer, ever more swiftly approaching, came that 
ominous shape; and now I could see the sea beyond. 
All was one white sheet of foam. Hearer, nearer 
it came. Hearer. How close at hand. I was rigid 
with suspense. A moment. The long pennant 
starts like an unsheathed sword, keen, quick, glanc¬ 
ing off, and pointing with quivering end; the tall 
masts bend ; the huge ship of a thousand tons, now 
like a feather, rises upon the sweeping billows, 
and the storm is upon us. 

Gentlemen, I can assure those of you who have 
not experienced it, that you can form no just idea 
of what a strong wind at sea is. It does not seem 
like wind, but like thin water, rushing in an over¬ 
whelming, resistless tide. So fierce and swift is it, 


travellers’ entertainment. 85 

that the skin exposed fairly smarts. Quite painfully 
did mine smart, as strapped to that mast I stood, or, 
rather hung, helpless. For a full minute, I believe, 
I could get no breath at all. At length, by putting 
my hands over my mouth, and turning my face to 
leeward, I managed to breathe after a gasping fashion. 

With the same tremendous force the wind con¬ 
tinued for nearly an hour. The vessel obeying her 
rudder faithfully, shot along at an alarming speed. 
The wind slacked a little, and but a little, and the 
sea began to rise fearfully. The two men at the 
wheel were found inadequate, and two more were 
called to their assistance. The waves Increased 
every moment, dashing wildly along, without begin¬ 
ning or end, exhaustless. The noble ship reeled and 
plunged like a wounded war-horse, yet still held on 
her course. 

It was not long before I fully realized the import¬ 
ance of being secured as I was. A great wave, three¬ 
fold larger than any before, came sweeping along. 
“ A sea! a sea!” shouted the men at the wheel in 
chorus, ‘‘A sea! a sea!” was echoed from all parts 
of the deck. I drew in a full breath, and embraced 
the mast. The next instant a tide ten feet above our 


86 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


heads dashed madly over us. Tlie good ship swayed 
as though, endowed with life, she had been dealt a 
stunning blow. Would she go down? The thought 
was scarcely formed when I was again breathing the 
misty air. Every movable had been swept away; 
and scarcely had the water subsided, when the heart- 
thrilling cry rose above the storm. “ A man over¬ 
board !” Why raise that cry ? Poor wretch! how 
could they save him ? He was a young sailor, inex¬ 
perienced in such dreadful straits. They tried to 
save him. He was seen floating a short distance 
away. Being a good swimmer, he sustained himself 
bravely; but the cruel tide had borne him too far 
from the ship. A rope was thrown, but he could 
not reach it. “A sea! a sea!” cried the men 
at the wheel, and another wave, like the first, dashed 
over us. The man overboard was gone for ever. 

I began to wish myself below. Matters had put 
on a more serious aspect than I had anticipated. But 
a few moments’ reflection convinced me that the 
attempt would be absurd; so I grinned defiance to 
my fears, and stood prepared for whatever dispensa¬ 
tion it should please Providence to inflict. 

The wind now shifted suddenly, blowing at a sharp 


travellers’ entertainment. 87 

i*Tigle with the previous track, and the waves became 
smaller, but more terrible. The ship tossed frantic¬ 
ally. 'No more obeying the rudder, she floated 
unmanageable, creaking, and straining as though 
every moment she would part asunder. Again the 
wind shifted, and became fltful. One fierce gust car¬ 
ried away the main-top-mast, with a tearing crash 
heard clearly above the rushing, deafening sound of 
the wind and waves. The tightly furled sails began 
to loosen, by slow degrees at first, though the wind 
snatched as with a thousand giant fingers—then gave 
way, gasket by gasket, till, flapping and tearing, they 
were carried away, leaving bare poles. It was now 
nearly noon. Every change so far had been for the 
worse, and our prospects were growing more dubious 
every moment. As the last sail—’which clung long, 
like hope—was flying in shreds, I saw Captain 
Smith shake hands with Mr. Demt, who had been 
continually at his side, and go below. He had not 
been gone three minutes when Senk came rushing by 
me, and leaped down the hatchway. I looked to the 
fore top. The lookout, stationed there, was waving 
his hat, and shouting, his face purple with exertion. 
What can it mean ? I inquired anxiously of myself, 


88 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


While I was looking, and striving to form some con¬ 
jecture, the SQiind of Captain Smith’s big feet on the 
deck near me, attracted my attention. He was run¬ 
ning towards the bow. I had never before seen him 
run, and for the moment, anxious as I was, I felt 
strongly inclined to laugh, so ludicrous was the gene¬ 
ral impression his figure made upon me. Arrived at 
the bow, he clapped his glass to his eye. Hot being 
satisfied with his position, he came back, and boldly 
mounted the shrouds, which led to the lookout. I 
expected every instant to see him fall, the ship 
plunged so dreadfully. But he reached the cross- 
trees in safety, and putting the glass again to his eye, 
he looked, while the lookout, now more at ease, sat 
with both hands partly raised, as though he were 
holding the ship, sea, winds, and all things, that 
Captain Smith might look. He evidently saw some¬ 
thing. His hat blew off. Still he continued to look. 
A sudden lurch of the vessel made him, perhaps for 
the first time in his life, drop his glass. The wind 
bore it like a thread far out into the water. Still he 
continued to look. 

“ Our time’s come,” shouted some one in my lee¬ 
ward ear. It was Senk. 


travellers’ entertainment. 


89 


“ What is it ? what is it ?” I shouted in reply. 

“A reef lies directly across her course. ilTo 
chance now.” 

The consciousness of Senk’s long experience on 
the sea, left in me no room for doubt, and the horrors 
of immediate death came upon me. For a moment 
I was paralyzed. Yet, but a moment; for my mind, 
reacting from the shock, became as a mirror, upon 
which all my past life shone a living picture. I saw 
my father and mother; my younger brothers and 
sisters, and myself—^rash, thoughtless boy—among 
them, and my schoolmates playing at their exciting 
games. The fields where I had labored in discontent 
were before me; and the patient oxen that had so 
often been visited with my wrath; the cows, the 
sheep, the lazy swine, and the rampant calves; the 
old church, and the stereotyped divine who had 
warned the young goats—of which I was chief—so 
often to beware; the quiet churchyard—and with 
that I recurred to things around me. I thought of 
how my father and my mother now looked, and my 
brothers and sisters; how they would never know 
what became of me, ever hoping that I would return, 
yet hoping in vain. Thus wandering in a reverie, 


90 


GEEEN MOUNTAm- 


insensible to the drenching spray and to the extreme 
fatigue which my unchanging position occasioned 
me, my eyes were attracted by an appearance 
directly ahead and not far off, which resembled the 
one that had characterized the approaching storm. 
I turned. Senk still stood by me. “ What’s that ?” I 
asked, forgetting what he had told me a few minutes 
before, and vaguely anticipating a counter storm. 
He made no reply. He, too, was perhaps thinking 
of a quiet home far away, where knelt aged parents 
at the close of day, to ask procection for one who had 
gone forth upon the treacherous deep. I repeated 
my question in a higher tone. 

‘‘ That white streak ?” he inquired, looking intently 
in the direction I pointed. “Yes, that’s the reef. 
Good God! we’re close upon it. Say your prayers, 
lad. It will soon be too late.” 

Captain Smith had continued to look all this time. 
Perhaps he had thoughts of home. But whatsoever 
occupied his mind, was to appearance suddenly 
dispelled when the sun, now past the meridian, 
flashed out from the clouds which were much 
broken, and shone down upon the appalling danger 
ahead. He left his position, and descending to the 


travellers’ ENTERTAINME-NT. 91 

deck, went aft. If I had dared, I would have 
unfastened myself, and followed him, for I felt 
attracted towards him in this awful extremity. But 
it required all the skill of an experienced sailor to 
walk that deck at that time, and I did not deem it 
prudent for me to venture. 

One by one the remainder of the crew came up 
from below, the placid steward bringing up the rear. 
He came alongside of me, and said in a voice as 
calm as the exertion necessary to make me hear 
allowed—“Well, they say we’ve got to go down to 
the bottom; are you prepared to die ?” 

In foolish moments I had made sport of his pious 
turn of mind, laughing at his laudations of the 
enthusiastic sect to which he belonged—^he was a 
devout Methodist—and whistling discord to his 
psalmodic efforts, in which he indulged night and 
morning; but now, in my despair, I strove to lean 
upon his honest piety. 

“Good man, pray for me,” I cried piteously. 
Obedient to my wish he knelt, and offered a short 
petition to Heaven, of which I heard not a word 
because of the confusion that prevailed. As he 
arose, I could not help perceiving the contrast he 


92 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


presented to the rest of the crew. Despair was 
stamped upon each countenance. Some were crying 
toward Heaven with beseeching looks, and uplifted 
hands, others were walking to and fro gnashing their 
teeth, others again sat with hands convulsively 
clenched in their hair, and staring vacantly. He, 
the steward, alone was calm; the derided St. 
Ebony,’’ as he had been often termed, leaning upon 
the Power which is not of this world, stood sublimely 
there, a man among those shrinking wretches. 

While observing thus the conti^st, I saw Mr. Demt 
make a motion as though suggesting something to 
Captain Smith, who was leaning against the quarter- 
rail. He immediately took the glass which Mr. 
Demt handed him, and looked long and intently in a 
direction contrary to the danger; then, in answer to 
the anxiously inquiring gaze of his companion, he 
shook his head. 

The wind veered again, apparently so as to blow 
us the more disastrously upon the reef—the sound of 
whose breakers was plainly heard—and continuing 
steadily for about five minutes, ceased almost as 
abruptly as it had begun. Hot so the sea. Lashed 
for six hours so unsparingly by the fleet giant, it 


TRAVELLEES ENTERTAINMENT. 


93 


would not be lulled by the soft breeze that fol¬ 
lowed. 

“ What’s to be done ?” said Captain Smith to Mr. 
Demt, as they walked slowly past me, forward. 

‘‘That’s just what I was thinking, Captain Smith,” 
replied the addressed. 

“I don’t see as anything can be done,” rejoined 
Captain Smith. “ There’s not time to do anything, 
if there were any use in trying. We must go 
aground—I can see no help for it.” 

“That’s just my opinion, Capt. Smith,” said Mr. 
Demt; and they walked out of my hearing. 

Lurching, plunging, drifting slowly, we approached 
the reef. Again Capt. Smith leaned over the quarter 
rail and looked. The sun was shining most brilliant¬ 
ly, the sky being perfectly clear. Shifting his glass 
from eye to eye, and wiping it often, then removing 
it, and, squaring himself, re-adjusting it several times, 
as though taking aim. Captain Smith at last threw up 
his hands with a dignified gesture. Mr. Demt walked 
hurriedly to him, and taking the glass, looked. The 
boatswain and two or three sailors now joined them, 
and the attention of all was attracted towards their 
movements. Senk stood not far from me. “ Is there 


94 


GRKKN MOUiSTAiN 


any hope ?” I inquired. Before he could reply, a new, 
joyful cry burst from all sides—“ A sail I a sail 1” I 
looked towards the group. Captain Smith was smil¬ 
ing most cordially, and shaking hands with the obse¬ 
quious mate, down whose cheeks ran tears. “ Thank 
God I thank God I” sounded from all sides. The pious 
steward was more ceremonious in his gratitude. He 
knelt upon the deck and poured out his soul quite 
devoutly, though the motion of the vessel, thwarted 
his devotions most sadly. 

After the first gush, the joyous excitement on board 
ebbed greatly. Of what practical use was that sail 
to us ? was the substance of every one’s thoughts. It 
was yet far distant—barely discernible with the na¬ 
ked eye—and in a few minutes, at most, we would be 
scattered among the greedy, remorseless waves. To 
add to the returning depression, it was determined 
that, by the course the stranger was taking, she would 
be out of sight in an hour. 

Could we attract their notice ? 

The gun was thought of, but instantly pronounced 
inexpedient. Other things were thought of, and men¬ 
tioned, and some one was speaking, when, borne on a 
heavy sea, the ship struck with tremendous forca. 


TRAVELLEKS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 95 

Grating, and tearing, she floated off with the ebbing 
billow; and before we had fairly recovered our 
breath, she struck again,—this time with a crash that 
sent all traces of blood from the faces of the bravest; 
even the steward, for the moment, appeared slightly 
faded. Again, the third time. She did not float 
away. Another sea followed, and hove her huge bulk 
further on to the unyielding reef. Another, and 
another. She poised a few moments, as though, en¬ 
tirely exhausted with the merciless conflict, the last 
struggle had come, then sank heavily and helplessly 
upon her side, a forlorn wreck. Fortunately for me, 
the side of the mast I occupied proved the upper side. 
Had it been the under, I must have perished. As it 
was, every wave dashed over me, and I should not 
have lived five minutes, had it not been for Senk and 
the steward, who, foreseeing the danger, had secured 
a lanyard. With their united efibrts,—the steward 
holding and Senk descending—I vras, nearly stran¬ 
gled, brought to the bulwarks, and bidden to hold on 
for my life. 

Tlie sea had become considerably calmed, but it 
still ran high enough to dash over the wreck from 
time to time, sunken as it was in about two fathoms 


96 


GBEEN MOUNTAIN 


of water. However, the evil was lessening, and hope 
stimulated us to efforts that seemed like the efforts 
of despair. While we were thus clinging to the shat¬ 
tered and swaying wreck, the sun went down into the 
ragged bosom of the sea ; and as the twilight, soften¬ 
ed by the coming night, enabled us to see the horizon 
clearly, we saw—^how very grateful was the sight!— 
we saw that the stranger had altered her course, and 
was approaching us. While the first thrill of joy was 
yet trembling along our nerves. Captain Smith, re¬ 
moving the glass through which he had been looking 
for a few minutes, said, with a familiar cheerfulness 
so unusual with him that some of us at first failed to 
apprehend,—“ Boys, she has a signal out! She sees 
us !” Kapturous joy now took possession of us all. 
The good steward thanked his Maker seven or eight 
times, in slow, emphatic succession, and pulled out a 
pocket volume of hymns essaying a song of praise ; 
but the sea, unmindful of him, sent a great wave 
that swallowed up his book, and he gave up the 
attempt. 

As the darkness deepened, and the twilight faded, 
we saw, dimmer and dimmer, the friendly sail ap¬ 
proaching ; and as the new moon dipped slowly into 


travellers’ ENrERTAINMENT. 


97 


the sea, which was very much calmed from suuset, 
we saw that sail quite distinctly still approaching. 

A long night was that. Exhausted by labor and 
want of food, it was a wonder that we sustained our¬ 
selves in our critical position through the long, dark 
hours. But we did, without the loss of a man ; and 
when the morning twilight opened the prospect, we 
saw the stranger vessel at anchor a half mile from ua, 
and a small boat, manned with four vigorous oars¬ 
men, coming to our relief. 

Before nine o’clock we were all on board ; and hav¬ 
ing refreshed ourselves with a most relishable break¬ 
fast, we gathered on deck, contemplating our last 
night’s lodgings quite seriously, for we had many 
regrets. Senk actually shed tears, declaring that he 
would rather have buried his mother than seen 
his home for so many years lying there helpless, to 
be knocked in pieces by the next storm that should 
come that way. I shed some tears with him; and he 
was yet narrating to me, in a feeling manner, how the 
staunch old vessel had bravely stood the onset and 
the angry buffetings of the last storm of her course, 
when the brisk order was given to make ready for 
departure. Senk left the sentence unfinished in his 
5 


98 


GEEEN M0UNTAI21 


mouth, and the next instant was at the capstan, heav¬ 
ing with might and main, and joining lustily in the 
exhilarating chorus. 

Soon all was ready, and slowly we left the scene of 
so much hope and despair, gathering aft, as the dis¬ 
tance increased, to catch a parting glimpse of the 
wreck, and straining our eyes till the sharpest sighted 
declared it no longer visible. 


travellers’ entertainment. 


99 


CHAPTER lY. 

At the point where the foregoing chapter ends, 
the narrator was interrupted in his story, by the little 
dry man rising, and stating, apologetically, that, as 
his plan of travel rendered it necessary for him to 
depart at a very early hour, he must, though some¬ 
what against his inclination, for he was considerably 
interested in the narration, and hoped it would con 
tinue to prove entertaining to us,—^he must, however, 
with our permission, retire to bed. 

We all assented by rising ; and, the Quaker setting 
the example, we approached severally, and taking 
his withered hand, bade the unhappy man farewell. 
When we had resumed our positions, and all was 
still again, the supposed lawyer, after clearing his 
throat, sonorously continued his story as follows:— 

The stranger that had come so opportunely to 
our assistance, was also a trading vessel, and belonged 
to a company in Liverpool. It was bound for the 


100 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN 


same port for which our ill-fated ship had been 
destined—a fortunate incident for Captain Smith, and 
Mr. Demt, who had friends there, but of no account 
to the rest of us, as our home was the deep, and our 
friends its wandering denizens, met—it mattered not 
where. Of course, I do not apply this last remark to 
myself, so much as the rest of the crew, though I 
have since had occasion to feel its truth somewhat. 

I had hitherto served as cabin-boy, and owing to 
the amiable disposition of my master, had not expe¬ 
rienced much hardship. So pleasant indeed had 
been my situation, that I had congratulated myself 
often in view of it—especially as compared with the 
tasks and oppression of my earlier boyhood. But 
in the change of circumstances, generally, mine 
changed also. On board the new ship, I was placed 
“before the mast,” and promptly initiated into the 
calling of a common sailor. The sleight-of-foot 
which I had so'often admired—dizzy with the con¬ 
templation, I was now forced to practice myself Oh, 
it was trying! the first trembling essay to mount to 
the mast-head. I hardly think I should have accom¬ 
plished it but for Senk, who volunteered to go up 
just before nae. With the stimulus of his cheering 


travellers’ p:ntertainment. 101 

voice, and tlie consciousness of liis being at hand to 
assist in case of failure, I accomplished the feat in 
perfect safety, returning to the deck alone. Kepeat- 
ing the manoeuvre often, I soon got the better of my 
fears, and felt entirely at ease anywhere, from the 
deck upwards, indefinitely. But the usual pleasing 
excitement arising from the overcoming of obsta¬ 
cles wore away directly, and 1 became exquisitely 
sensitive to the galling chain of monotonous labor 
imposed upon me. The weather was generally disa¬ 
greeable, being windy, and wet, in that half-way 
manner, which forbids alike ease or excitement, and 
being fixedly on duty twelve hours out of the twenty- 
four, without regard to external circumstances, my 
cup of affliction filled up rapidly, and I felt all the 
nameless agonies of an oppressed boy. I sickened at 
heart, and soured in the same locality; and in the 
course of fermentation I thought much and lovingly 
of my old home. I thought of it more and more 
until mf absence of mind attracted the notice of my 
companions; and the happy turns of speech which 
some of them contributed at my expense, considera¬ 
bly heightened the prevailing state of mind undei 
which I labored. Yet Senk stood by me, and com 


102 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


forted me hopefully. Had it not been for him, I 
might have gone down under the load. But his kind¬ 
ness did not hinder my being seized finally with 
home-sickness, in one of its most demolishing forms. 

Home-sickness! thou pale-faced embodiment of 
fond regrets, hovering over the weary and oppressed, 
far from the roof that echoed the cries of their 
infancy,—hovering kindly with an aroma emanating 
from thee which embalms the scenes which fond 
memory brings,—touching with soft, feeble fingers 
the heartstrings. O, thou—but I will not tarry 
hoping to grow eloquent. Sufiice it to say, that I 
was growing worse daily, when a decided circum¬ 
stance put an end to my. ailment, quite magically— 
at once, and for ever. It was this : 

One sunny afternoon, soon after doubling Cape 
Good Hope—by-the-by, the first sunshine we had 
been visited with for three weeks—I was sitting on 
the taffrail thinking of the sunny afternoons of my 
earlier life. The genial rays of the sun gave the run 
of my mind a dreamy character, separating me quite 
distinctly from surrounding things. From reverie, 
encouraged by the silence and general harmony 
which prevailed, the transition*^ to real sleep was 


TKAVELLERS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 103 

quite easy and natural—so easy and natural, that I 
underwent it, and my centre of gravity being nicely 
adjusted, I remained wrapped in serene slumber for a 
time. As sleep deepened upon me, my muscles 
insensibly relaxed, particularly those of my arms and 
hands, which embraced my knees. Suddenly my 
fingers parted asunder, and with an unreserved lurch 
I departed headlong backwards into the sea. I came 
to the surface in a state of disputed possession 
between air and water—an idea of sharks, however, 
taking partial lead of my confused faculties, and 
imparting a spasmodic stimulus, I succeeded in 
maintaining my head, until a line, with a buoy 
attached, thrown to me from the receding ship, 
enabled my comrades to draw me in, which they did 
in silence until I was safely on deck; then transpired 
a great shout and a miscellaneous waving of tarpau¬ 
lins which made me feel quite distinguished. The 
cure was perfect. I felt as though I had poured 
myself out a libation to the sea, and was thence¬ 
forth devoted to it. 

Our voyage thenceforward was without accident or 
incident worthy of recapitulation. Arrived at the des¬ 
tined port, we, who had belonged to the wrecked 


104 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


vessel, went out two and two and separated, some of us 
for ever. Senk seemed to have incorporated me into 
the narrow sphere of his hopes and desires. He 
clung to me as a father to a child. Being without 
employment we •set about seeking the same. We 
succeeded after some search in finding a vessel, 
which having in a late storm lost a part of her crew, 
accepted our proffered services with a promise of 
fair remuneration, and accordingly we went on 
Ooard and took up quarters. It was an English 
vessel, not so large as the one we had quitted, but 
better appointed. It was engaged in the East India 
trade, and was on its way out, being only incidentally 
in that port for the purpose of refitting. At that 
time great danger from pirates was incurred in navi¬ 
gating some parts of the Indian Ocean, and every 
trading vessel was more or less provided with means 
of self-defence. Our ship carried four pieces of 
ordnance, and had also a small armory. These I 
discovered the next day after going on board, while 
perambulating, cat-fashion, for the purpose of form¬ 
ing more intimate acquaintance with my new home; 
and I also discovered some marks which suggested 
an idea of war. I asked a sailor who stood near as 


travellers’ entertainment. 105 

to their origin. From him I learned that the ship 
had already seen two desperate conflicts with pirates, 
and had been metaphorically named ‘ The Irresisti¬ 
ble,’ on account of having come off conqueror 
both times. I swung in my hammock that night to 
the imaginary cadence of imaginary fifes and drums, 
and saw in my dreams great fields of men mowed 
down, and the whole swallowed up in a shoreless sea 
of blood. 

Our captain’s name was Thims. He was as much 
the reverse of Captain Smith as was the ortho¬ 
graphy of his name. He was a tall, well-propor¬ 
tioned, robust, sunny man—everybody’s friend as 
long as everybody would allow him to be, but a 
most implacable enemy to any one who saw fit to 
refuse him friendship. He was jovial among his 
shipmates to an uncommon degree, and strongly 
prepossessed in favor of the world at large. Every 
sailor on board, except one sulky old hound—of 
whom I shall have something to say by-and-by— 
was his familiar and ever cordially greeted friend; 
and so much was he beloved by them, that the ful¬ 
fillment of his wishes was at all times a most binding 
duty among them. 


5 * 


106 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


Being duly refitted and rendered sea-worthy, our 
ship’s prow was turned seaward, and we were soon 
again far out upon the deep. 

Months passed. I continued to perform my nauti¬ 
cal duties faithfully, and in a measure successfully, 
making great initiatory progress. Being quick and 
vigorous, I soon acquired all those tricks of ascent 
and descent, of balancing and turning summersault 
which so puzzle a landsman in a sailor, and could 
climb and leap, and swing, and shout “ Ay, ay, sir!” 
with the lustiest. Everything went on smoothly. 
The vessel was duly freighted to the entire satisfac¬ 
tion of the agents employed by the house that 
owned her, and we turned prow towards London. 

Our voyage to that commercial emporium was 
slow and quiet, without prominent incidents. It 
consumed several months. 

Tarrying at London three or four weeks, we again 
put to sea. Again our voyage was prosperous, and 
tedious, until we reached the vicinity of Cape Good 
Hope. ILere we met with a narrow escape. A sud¬ 
den, rampant squall, peculiar to that coast, came up 
in the night, and blowing directly ashore, bore us un¬ 
mercifully along with it. Happily, we were so far 


TBAYELLEB8 ENTEETAINMENT, 


10 ^ 


advanced upon our course as to have passed the worst 
part of the promontory; yet there was one rock, as it 
afterwards appeared, from which we were saved barely 
by one somewhat surprising circumstance. The sulky 
sailor, to whom I have, before alluded, was at the 
wheel. He was a gigantic fellow, having fully the 
strength two ordinary men, and proud of his strength, 
or, rather, taking a malicious pleasure in exhibiting it, 
he would never brook the assistance of another in the 
discharge of his duties as helmsman. It was very 
dark. Captain Thims was on the quarter deck, 
attenjiiiig to the report of soundings from the man in 
the main chains, when he perceived dimly a dark ob¬ 
ject to the starboard, which he took for a rock. 

Hard a-starboard!’ hard a-starboard!” he cried 
at the top of his voice. 

“ Ay, ay, sir,” was the hoarse response, and the 
prow turned short, and plowed directly into, instead 
of away from, the dark object, while at the same in¬ 
stant, from larboard mid-ships, came the despairing 
cry—‘‘A rock! a rock I we’re lost I” But we were 
not lost. The dark object proved an illusion; the 
danger was opposite. The grim helmsman had saved 
us, though he had intended, as all thought, to dash 


108 


GREEK MOUKTAIK 


the ship upon the rock. Why Captain Thims retained 
this man in his service I never kne^w. There seemed 
a bond between them, like the fabled bond which 
secured prospectively to His Satanic Majesty the souls 
of men. A more sincere, deep-rooted, infernal ha¬ 
tred could scarcely exist between two mortals, than 
exhibited itself now and then between them. Yet 
there were times when they walked arm in arm 
with each other, but as we might suppose embodied 
thunderbolts to walk arm in arm. On such occasions 
there was a pallor in the captain’s face, and a most 
malignant frown on the face of the other, which it 
was frightful to behold. They were sometimes in the 
cabin by themselves for hours; and at such times, 
those who were near heard horrible, hissing words, 
and grating and gnashing of teeth. The grim giant 
would accept of no other situation than that of com¬ 
mon sailor, though by experience, he was fully ade¬ 
quate to the command of any vessel in any latitude, 
the second mate said one day in my hearing, and I 
have no doubt that it was so. Altogether it was 
quite a mysterious affair, and gave rise to much rough 
speculation among the superstitious of our crew. 

Except the narrow escape at the Cape there was 


TEAVELLEES’ ENTEETAINMENT. 109 

liOthing occurred to mar or relieve the quiet mono¬ 
tony of our voyage, and we cast anchor one beautiful 
morning at sunrise, in the port of Borneo—which 
was the first point of destination. 

"We remained there nearly two months, much of 
the time idle, waiting for something, but no one could 
tell what, for all the freight we were to take on there 
■ was shipped during the first ten days of our stay. It 
was surmised, and quite loudly talked of, that “ the 
Devil”—such was the expressive cognomen by which 
the giant sailor was known among us—had a hand in 
the . unusual delay. How far this surmise was correct, 
may be inferred from the sequel. 

Finally, after the long, long, and most tiresome wait¬ 
ing for what turned out to be literally nothing, so far 
as I could see or learn, the welcome order to weigh 
anchor was given. We hastened to obey it, and were 
soon ploughing away under full sail before a good 
breeze. We were bound thence for Manilla, there to 
complete our freight. A Spanish family had taken 
passage on board our vessel—a new circumstance, 
somewhat agreeably disturbing the usual routine of 
my previous life. -It was a family of six—the father 
and mother middled-aged, of dignified demeanor, evi- 


110 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


dentlj accustomed from childhood to the careful obser¬ 
vance of all the little decencies of life; a daughter 
and her husband, enjoying the first raptures of the 
honeymoon,—and well did those raptures become 
them;—a younger daughter in the bud of maiden¬ 
hood, and a little ruddy-cheeked boy, seven or 
eight years old. They all spoke English with passa¬ 
ble fluency, and during the day-time were much on 
deck, conversing with the captain and mates, and en¬ 
joying the grateful sea breezes. The bride attracted 
my attention particularly. I think in all my travels 
on this great globe, I have never met a being that has 
superseded, in my judgment, that gentle, beaming 
creature. Though so young at the time that I could 
only receive the impression without second thought, 
I have since speculated upon it seriously, and make 
my statement soberly. It was not so much owing to 
the regularity of her features, nor the melting con¬ 
tour of her harmonious form, that made her appear so 
very beautiful; it was the indescribable ‘‘general 
efi*ect,” as artists say,—the radiance of virgin passion 
just putting forth its last, ripest, richest beauties un¬ 
der the genial influence of kindred passion bestowed 
without reserve. The groom was a flt companion to 


TKAVELLEKS’ ENTERTAINMENT. Ill 

her:—with a noble and graceful bearing, he, too, 
was more graceful, more nobly beautiful for the pas¬ 
sion that absorbed him. The younger daughter was a 
sweet, lovable girl, full of honest curiosity, which she 
so artlessly sought to gratify that she stood in con¬ 
stant need of check from her parents. She went about 
talking with everybody, asking a great many unne¬ 
cessary, and sometimes unanswerable questions, yet 
expressing surprise so ingenuously, followed with such 
a sweet, playful smile, that it seemed a delightful 
privilege to answer her. She seemed at first to con¬ 
fine her investigations to the medium of the older sail¬ 
ors ; but they soon took such a promiscuous character 
that I began to fear an approach. You must bear 
in mind that 1 was quite young then ; and I was more¬ 
over very bashful in the presence of the other sex. 
In this case particularly so, as she walked about in 
my eyes almost an angel. My fears harrowed me so 
much that I became quite nervous, which illy pre¬ 
pared me for what actually happened. I was stand¬ 
ing near Senk, to whom she was addressing some 
questions, importing a desire to know more explicitly 
the process of navigation by night. Having received 
the answers she desired, with the usual remunerating 


112 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


smile, she turned her beaming face full on me, and 
said, as though she hardly anticipated an answer, 
“ Do you like to be a sailor If she did not expect 
reply, she was not disappointed, for in my confusion 
I could not utter a word. Seeming to take compas¬ 
sion upon my disturbed condition, she passed on, but 
presently returned, asking me, with a serious look, if I 
had any father and mother. During the minute that 
had elapsed, the first upheaval had subsided, and I 
quite calmly told her I had, and a sister, too, like her, 
far off in America. To this she replied, asking where 
America was,—then suddenly recollecting, she pro¬ 
ceeded to answer herself, and went on to ask many 
questions about my home, which I answered very 
elaborately, and with much emotion. Then she told 
me about her home in Borneo; and she was yet tell¬ 
ing me in a very animated manner about the garden 
she had there, when her mother called her, and they 
went below. 

Gentlemen, I love the sunshine, and I approach 
darkness unwillingly. I love to recall that beam 
which for a brief space cheered my wandering boy¬ 
hood ; but the recollection of the darknes, that 
followed, has a deep shadow of terror to me, though 


travellers’ entertainment 


113 


a quarter of a century has passed since its awful 
folds blotted from the world, so much beauty and 
rapturous hope, so much rough, yet sterling integrity, 
and real, honest humanity. I would spare your 
hearts the recital, but you have required a story of 
me, and this is a part of it, and must be told. 

It was a breezy evening in October, cool for that 
latitude. The day had closed with a doubtful sky. 
Big, detached clouds that seemed to have no water 
in them, yet were very thick and black, came, and 
passed on to the South steadily, and somewhat 
rapidly. We had been out from Borneo six days. The 
winds having been adverse, we had made slow pro¬ 
gress, and were on that evening making a tack which 
was carrying us off the Eastern shore of Palavrau. 
There was no land in sight. The sea was slightly 
ruffled, but only so much as to give a pleasant motion 
to the vessel, and the barometer indicating no change 
of weather for the present, a general quiet pervaded 
the whole ship’s company. The larboard w’atch, to 
which I belonged, was on duty. There being no need 
of active labor, the sailors gathered in groups, listen¬ 
ing to each other’s yarns, many times told before, yet 
always interesting to those who told them, and to 


114 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


those who listened, of course. The passengers had 
come on deck just before sunset, and still remained, 
forming a group on the quarter-deck, with Captain 
Thims and the first mate. E'ot having been long 
enough at sea to be interested in a twice-told tale, I 
separated from my companions, and being perhaps 
attracted somewhat, by the sweet Castilian muchacJia 
who had so innocently entranced mo, I drew near 
to the last-mentioned group. They were talking of 
the dangers of navigation. The father of my little 
beauty was telling a story, how, in his boyhood, he 
drifted out to sea with the tide in an open boat, and 
how, having been picked up when almost dead, by a 
brig, he went on a voyage of six months, returning 
home to his parents, who supposed him dead. This 
reminded Captain Thims of one similar, that had an 
excellent joke in it, which he rehearsed with such a 
hearty joviality, that we laughed until we were out 
of breath, and then laughed again purely on his 
account. We had scarcely done laughing, when the 
little ruddy-cheeked boy, whom I had noticed for 
some time back, standing a short distance apart from 
the company, looking intently, and rather wildly, all 
along the Eastern horizon, came running up to his 


travellers’ entertain ment. 115 

mother, and laying his head in her lap, began to 
cry. 

“What’s the matter, my child?” inqnired the 
mother, with much solicitude. 

“My little son, what ails you?” joined in the 
father. “Hush! hush! I’m ashamed of you.” 

“ What is the matter with my little boy ?” again 
inquired the mother, feeling him shudder, as she 
remarked aside. But the little fellow cried on, bury¬ 
ing his head deeper in his mother’s lap. 

“What ails the child? This.is quite unusual,” 
remarked the father, stepping forward to raise him 
up. But he clung frantically to his mother, crying as 
if in real despair.—“ Don’t let them take me—don’t, 
mother!” 

“ Who ? Why, my love, don’t you want to come 
to father?” 

The tender, familiar voice seemed to soothe him a 
little, and, looking anxiously around, he finally gave 
himself up to his father, in whose arms he soon fell 
asleep. 

“Mind I tell ye there’s bloody breakers ahead, or 
I never seen a capstan.” 

We looked around. It was an old sailor, grey- 


116 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


headed and scarred,—noted on board for his extreme 
taciturnity and dullness; and as he stood there 
then, his face lit up as with a flash of internal light 
slowly fading, a thrill of terror sent the blood from 
the face of every one who heard him. Captain 
Thims appeared peculiarly agitated, rising hurriedly 
and without ceremony going below. The family soon 
followed him, descending reluctantly and whispering 
among themselves. As I walked away towards the 
forecastle, I was somehow vaguely impressed with the 
idea that “the DeviP^—who, being of the starboard 
watch, was below in his hammock, might explain the 
mysterious phenomena I had just witnessed. It was, 
however, but the passing shadow of a thought, and 
I joined the knot of sailors nearest at hand, listening 
to what was being said. I found that the circum¬ 
stance of the child’s fright on the quarter-deck had 
attracted their attention, and had given rise to stories 
of the most bloody and extravagant character, con¬ 
cerning pirates, particularly of the Sooloo pirates, in 
whose seas we were then sailing. I listened awhile, 
and then went on, visiting the other groups in suc¬ 
cession. I found the same spirit prevailing, blood 
and battles being the burden of every tale. At 


TRAVELLEES’ ENTEETAIKMENT. 117 

length I grew weary and sick at the recitals, which 
to keep up the excitement became ridiculously 
extravagant, and went aft by myself alone, gazing off 
into the sky—now nearly overcast with heavy, swift- 
moving clouds—feeling very gloomy indeed. It was 
ten o’clock; I felt uneasy and lonely, and thirsting 
for some sort of social diversion, I bethought me of 
the helmsman, who had a few minutes before taken 
his post—a burly, broad-faced, good-natured fellow, to 
whom I owed a debt of gratitude for having once 
saved my life. Being near the wheelhouse, I entered 
noiselessly. He was standing fixedly at his post, 
eyeing abstractedly the huge compass before him. 
He did not notice me when I came in, and stood 
watching a minute or more before he seemed con¬ 
scious of my presence. When he did, he started 
with a great, blank look of surprise—‘‘ Heh! lad I 
It’s you? Is it dark out? Yes, by the gods!” he con¬ 
tinued, looking out earnestly ; “ dark as the hold of 
a slaver. Damme! but I wish we had a moon 
to-night. Where’s the captain, lad ?” 

“ He is below,” said I. Went below in a hurry, 
some time ago—two or three hours, perhaps—and 
hasn’t been up since.” 


118 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


“ What’s that ? Ah ! I mind me now. When the 
little boy was scart so.” 

“ Yes,” I affirmed; continuing, “ that was a 
curious affair,” and was going to say something 
more, when he broke in musingly, “ Quite nat’ral, 
quite nat’ral. I’ve seen that same afore,” and looked 
again abstractedly at the compass. Again I contem¬ 
plated him a minute or more. He seemed uncon¬ 
scious of any one near him. This surprised me. 
Abstraction was something quite foreign to his 
nature; he was always so bright and full of hearti¬ 
ness and redundant humor, that I knew now some¬ 
thing very unusual weighed upon him. While I was 
looking at him, getting rapidly back—in part 
through sympathy—to my former gloom, he raised 
his head slowly, and gazing rather vacantly at me, 
said in a low voice—‘‘Boy that’s very serious to 
think on. It makes me very melancholy. D’ye 
know, boy, we’re in dangerous seas ? I seen a hulk 
in Borneo this day week that told a tale! If ye’d a 
seen the blood, dark stains o’ blood, boy, ye’d not 
stood so quietly as ye do now. Them d—d Sooloos 
make clean work wi’ life, boy, but dirty work wi’ 
the body o’ man.” After half a minute he continued, 


TRAVELLEES’ ENTERTAINMENT. 


119 


“ Will ye go below, and tell Captain Thims to come 
to this wheel-bonse directly?”. As I passed along 
towards the companion-way to execute the order, I 
saw the old, grey-headed, scarred sailor scouring 
with desperate industry an old scimitar. He was 
murmuring to himself; and as I passed close by him, 
I caught the words, “pirates”—“morning”—“all 
dead.” As I crept down to find the captain, I 
noticed that no lamp had been lit below, a thing that 
had never before happened within my sea-faring 
experience. For some foolish cause this circum¬ 
stance affected me very much. I felt for the first 
time afraid. An undefined sense of something awful 
impending stole over me. 

Making my way blunderingly to the captain’s 
room, I boldly entered. He was deeply engaged 
with a sea-chart, and had lost all traces of agitation. 
I communicated the helmsman’s request, mentioning 
his name. “Why, what ails Bill to-night?” he 
replied pleasantly. “He’s not apt to have bug¬ 
bears.” He continued, rising, “I’ll attend to his 
case. Go back to your duty.” There were signs of 
agitation in his manner as he followed me out, which 
I partook of largely as I followed him along the dark 


120 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


way, now more light by reason of a small lantern he 
carried, up to the deck. Surmising that the meeting 
in the wheel-house would have something to do with 
the cause of the great fear that had fallen upon me, 
I approached and looked in from a little distance. 
They stood for some minutes in close conversation, 
the captain assuming a laughing indifference, the 
sailor evidently painfully serious. At length Cap¬ 
tain, Thims turned on his heel, and was coming out. 
Bill’s voice took a higher pitch, and I caught the 
words. “ Ye’d better keep him from the wheel. 
Now I tell ye, ye wrong us all by not doing as I tell 
ye.” 

“Shame on you. Bill,” returned the captain. 
“You’re unreasonable. That was purely acci¬ 
dental.” 

“Well, sir, ye’re commander. The ship’s your’n, 
but the lives of us all are not your’n. But you and I 
can’t agree. It must go as you say.” The captain 
stepped back, and patting him on 'the shoulder, 
assured him it was an idle whim, and whirling, 
hurriedly left the spot, yet not so quickly but that 
my sharpened vision detected an unusual nervousness 
in his step, and a pallor in his countenance. “ Well, 


TKAYELLERS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 121 

Bill,” ejaculated I with a long respiration, looking in 
at door. 

‘‘ Boy,” he answered, “ come in, I want to talk to 
you.” 

I obeyed, and in a whisper he entered upon a 
detail of what possessed him, the substance of which 
was, that we were in a dangerous situation: that he 
had a deadly fear of ‘ the Devil,’ heightened by the 
recollection of the incident at the Cape; that his trick 
at the wheel would come off between two and four 
in the morning, as he was informed; he wouldn’t say 
just what he thought; he blamed Captain Thims; 
didn’t know as Captain Thims could help it; and 
ended by wishing most heartily we had a moon. I 
knew his experience and his good sense, and his re¬ 
marks multiplied my fears, so that I was almost afraid 
to leave him. But I summoned courage enough and 
went forward, joining the rest. They had ceased 
telling stories, and were ominously silent. I sought 
out Senk, and sitting down close to him, experienced 
a feeling of safety quite soothing, until he, turning 
suddenly upon me, said in an emphatic whisper, 
“Phil, I am afraid.” Tliis roused my ghastly feam 
to such an extent, that I believe I should have gone 


6 


122 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


to mj liammock against orders^ hoping for relief 
there, had not the announcement that it was mid¬ 
night given us all permission to go. 

I went below with the rest and turned in. At 
first I could not sleep. My fears took bodily shapes. 
Hed fires gleaming from the basements of massive 
buildings—creeping fires that no one could quench, 
making their insidious way to powder magazines; 
hairy, black, grim fiends in human form sneaking 
noiselessly along, and stabbing up beneath our ham¬ 
mocks ; shrinking females frantically climbing the 
shrouds, and, pursued by the ferocious monsters, 
plunging from the yards into the dark sea. Thus 
was I assailed. Fancying that I heard something, I 
started up and listened. An unusual quiet prevailed. 
The most inveterate snorer gave not so much as a 
snort to remind one of his existence. Yet they were 
all in their berths. I heard one of them groan. I 
lay down again, and again my fears took bodily 
shapes. I was in an opefi boat at sea, out of sight of 
land. The sea was smoother than I had ever seen it 
before. There was not a breath of wind : so still it 
was, that it hardly seemed there was any atmosphere 
at all, and yet I was borne rapidly along, or, sta- 


TEAVELLEKS’ ENTEETAINMENT. 


123 


tionary myself, the sea moved—I knew not nor cared; 
something of vital and vast importance hung upon 
me it seemed. First, it was the pretty Castilian 
maiden. I tried in the dim horizon to see her. I 
looked, and looked until I saw her. She was in the 
air floating like a gossamer. She waved her hands 
as if keeping time to some blissful cadence. She 
swayed, and swam, and danced ‘with airy leaps 
far before me. ITow, I could not see her face. The 
hands were gone; no, there was one remaining. Its 
wavy motion was gone. It writhed. Her face turned 
towards me. The palor and ghastliness of death 
were there. It was to save her life that I was sweep¬ 
ing madly along. And now it was distinctly the sea 
that moved. The foam at the prow of my boat was 
gone, and I was being borne rapidly away! The 
white hand beckoned, beckoned—despair was in the 
tremor of its fingers, but I could not come. 

Then I was far away. The sea narrowed—became 
a river narrowing. Beautiful shores smiled upon me. 
Then one continuous city lined them. Majestic 
castles; hanging-gardens watered by silvery foun¬ 
tains ; heaven-reaching spires in endless profusion 
met my eye on either side; yet there was a hue of 


124 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


blood about it all that terrified me. The river nar¬ 
rowed—narrowed, became a creek. The city disap¬ 
peared. I was on land, standing by a battered hulk. 
There were blood stains upon it, and men sv^ty and 
worn with toil were striving to wash them off. Upon 
that hulk stood the form of the gigantic sailor, bear¬ 
ing the same expression of hot vengeance I had often 
seen. I beheld him awe-stricken. A sweet, soft 
voice in the air said ‘‘Yanish!” He smote his 
breast, and the blood-shot, gleaming eyes left their 
sockets; the long matted hair passed ofif in shreds 
upon the passing wind, and his giant bulk fell a mass 
of rattling bones to the ground. 

Again I was in the open sea, still bent upon my 
mission, which grew more important as it grew more 
vague and objectless. My father and mother were 
with me. A single red light gleamed in the cloudy 
sky. It became brighter and brighter. It^was the 
face of the beautiful bride. She smiled upon us, 
and waved her hand away as if to some distant land 
whither she was going, and a clear, angelic voice 
came over the sea—“ I am on earth no more,”—Ho 
more,” ^vas the soft echo that sank sleeping upon the 
distant waves. 


travellers’ entertainment. 


125 


I turned around. My father and mother were 
gone. The sea and cloudy sky were gone. I was 
upon a mountain top—upon a crag that overhung a 
beautiful valley far, far down. In that valley were 
men struggling in mortal combat. Among them 
was Captain Thims, armed to the teeth. I saw him 
fall. A bloody knife grasped by a giant hand—a 
bloody face flashed in the sun. It was a face that I 
knew—the face of the grim sailor. “ You are a 
murderer,” I shouted. In deafening tones my voice 
pealed down the mountain side. A thousand echoes 
caught it up, and rung it far, far away, until the 
earth shook as with the roll of distant thunder. 
Hark ! It has become suddenly still—dark and still. 
A hand is on mine. I start as though stung by a 
serpent. 

“ What! boy, ye afraid ?” Pshaw! I had been 
sleeping. “ Bill,” said I in a whisper, for he whis¬ 
pered, “ did it thunder just now ?” 

“ Ho. I guess ye must a-heard ^ the Devil ’ taking 
his place at the wheel. It has been mighty still 
otherwise, I tell ye. Boy, I do wish ’twas morning. 
Boy, I have a plan. Senk and me has been talking 
it over. We can’t neither of us sleep, and we’ra 


126 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


going slily ,on deck, to watch a little, you know. 
Wouldn’t ye go along?” ‘Wes, lad,” put in Senk, 
hoarsely whispering, “ come along.” I needed no 
urging. We went together on deck, taking up our 
position on the foi-ecastle. Senk, experienced and 
sagacious, noticed at once, that the wind was from a 
new quarter. He communicated the fact to Bill, who 
thought it very singular, as we were still on the same 
tack he knew. The wind was directly astern. Possi¬ 
bly it had changed. Hothing more was said on the 
subject for a while. Senk had had a dream, very 
extravagant, very disastrous. He told it to us elabo¬ 
rately in a whisper, 'which became suhvocal at 
emphatic passages. Then I told mine. Between the 
two dreams, nearly an hour passed. After my dream 
was told, we -were silent. “It’s strange Mr. Dory 
don’t notice this change in the wind. He must be 
asleep,” remarked Senk. “It is strange,” replied 
Bill, and there was silence again. The '^veight of the 
night began to show itself upon Senk. He was nodd¬ 
ing ; and a peculiar indifference was creeping upon 
me, when a whisper—with a deep ominous tone 
'svhich stopped my heart dead still for an instant— 
said, “We’re off our course, or the north -star has 


TRAYELLEES’ ENTERTAINMENT. 127 

clianged place.” I looked in the direction Bill’s 
finger was pointing. A rent in the clouds showed a 
patch of sky. There it was, the north star right off 
astern. At the same time there was a movement 
on the quarter. “ What are you about there at the 
wheel, asleep ?” shouted the mate, and then proceeded 
to'order a put about, concluding with a hope that he 
at the helm, would keep awake. “ Ay, ay, sir!”— 
wide awake enough, we thought. The clouds closed 
again.—Had an angel opened them that we might 
see ?—^Still the wind continued from the same 
quarter. “ Passing strange Mr. Dory don’t notice it,” 
reflected Senk. But Mr. Dory was a dull, amiable 
man, and did not notice it. “ Captain Thims must * 
know this ” said Bill, agitated, though determined; 
‘‘and I’ll go and tell him now.” We had no 
objection, and he started. Just as he reached the com¬ 
panion-way he was hailed by Mr. Dory. “ Halloa ! 
larboard, what you doing here?” Then followed a 
silence, broken to Senk and me by Bill and Mr. 
Dory coming forward in close, subdued conversation. 

I was listening, when Senk laid his hand, which 
trembled, upon my arm, and speaking aloud, told 
me to look forward, out on the sea. Far out on the 


128 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN 


distant horizon, directly in oiir course, I saw a blood- 
red light—small yet distinct—^like the single red 
light of my dream. Mr. Dory saw it. Bill saw it, 
and we stood looking intently at it for half a minute, 
perhaps when it disappeared. 

“ Peace, and good will to men, I say; for the king¬ 
dom of Heaven is at hand to some of us, that’s 
fixed,” commented Senk. 

“ I believe you. Bill,” said Mr. Dory. “We have 
a traitor here. Do you keep watch here, and I’ll 
attend to him.” Summoning half a dozen men to 
his assistance, Mr. Dory proceeded without noise to 
the wheelhouse. I attended them. We halted near, 
where we could distinctly see the object of our suspi¬ 
cions. His strong hands were firm on the wheel, his 
dark, lowering gaze fiercely directed towards the 
point where the light had appeared. The mate 
entered and touched his shoulder. He started, yet 
seeing who it was, sneered most scornfully, and 
turned away. “ Where are you driving us to ?” 
firmly demanded Mr. Dory. “To H—1,” was the 
contemptuous reply. “Well, sir, you can leave this 
wheel,—the sooner the better.” “ Have you ordera 
from the captain ?” coolly inquired the other. 


TKAVELLEKS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 


129 


“That happens to be none of your business,” 
retorted the mate. 

“Well, sir, I shan’t leme without orders from 
him.” 

“We’ll help you,” quietly responded Mr. Dory, 
and ordered the men to arrest him. Tliis was 
achieved through much struggling, and hard words^ 
and the giant was carried below. 

Another man was appointed to the wheel; the 
light at the prow was extinguished, and the one in 
the wh^el-house carefully screened. Our coui-se was 
resumed, bearing away from the portentous light, 
which had again appeared, larger, apparently 
nearer. 

“ Where is the second mate of this vessel ?” sound¬ 
ed harshly through the darkness. It was the voice of 
Captain Thims, scarcely recognizable for its hoarse¬ 
ness and depth. There was no answer. “ Is any one 
at the wheel ?” he demanded, walking that way. "No 
answer. Coming to the wheel-house, he said with a 
fierceness strange indeed for him, addressing the 
helmsman, “ Scoundrel! I’ll stab you to death if you 
don’t tell me what this means this instant. I’ll not 
be fooled with this way. Where’s the second mate ? 

6 * 


130 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


tell me, d—n you ! quick, or I’ll blow 'out your 
brains.” The man, frightened at the dreadful anger 
which possessed the Captain, confusedly told him the 
state of things. 

“Poor devil!” ejaculated Captain Thims, “he 
don’t know what he has done. "Where is he—the 
mate ?” 

“ Look yonder, will you,” said the mate, now at 
his side, and pointing to the light. Captain Tliims 
looked; but the light had disappeared, and he saw it 
not. “ Do you know what you are about, you ras¬ 
cal ?” said he to Mr. Dory. “ Recall that man 
instantly, and put him at the wheel.” 

“ I beg of you. Captain Thims, to consider”- 

“ !Not one word, sir, if you will not drive me to ex¬ 
tremities,” interrupted the captain, making a gesture 
towards the pistol in his breast pocket. Astounded 
at the unaccountable conduct of Captain Tliims, the 
mate recalled ‘the Devil,’ and placed him at the 
wheel. This done, he suggested to Captain Thims 
the necessity of arming the crew. “ All fudge,” 
sneered the captain. “ If you are afraid, go below, 
the whole of you. I’ll take charge of the vessel till 
morning*-” 


TRAVELLEES’ ENTERTAINMENT. 


131 


Though this was said in an ironical manner, we 
took him at his word by common consent, and 
went below. The larboard watch were apprised 
of what was going on, and getting up, we all proceed^ 
ed to the armory, where each procured a weapon. 
The first mate proposed going on deck. But Mr. 
Dory, knowing the consequences, dissuaded him. “A 
few minutes more, and we shall be called on deck! 
I fear resistance will be vain. Tliis is to my mind 
but the consummation of a deep plot, which so far 
has had no hindrance. I do not implicate Captain 
Thims; but I do think he is deceived—or perhaps 
he can’t help it. His conduct is strange, unaccounta¬ 
ble. But let us fight like men. The case is by no 
means hopeless.” Thus talked Mr. Dory in a whis¬ 
per, the last two remarks being spoken aloud. Then 
Mr. Bemy, the first mate, offered some remarks. He 
was yet speaking when the sharp report of a pistol 
was heard, and the sound of quick, heavy footsteps 
overhead. “ On, men ! Follow me !” shouted Mr. 
Dory, unsheathing his sword, and rushing up the 
companion-way. Desperately we struggled up. 
Three succeeded in reaching the deck. Establishing 
a footing there, they guarded the advent of those be- 


132 


green mountain 


hind. I was the fifth. For an instant I was appalled. 
Throngs of black, ngly fiends were pouring over the 
bulwarks and making for the hatchway. Despair 
made me brave, and I sprang upon the deck. I had 
just time to see the reeling form of Captain Thims 
swaying towards us, the target of a dozen pikes, when 
a strong blow laid me senseless. 

I must have remained in that condition several 
hours. When I recovered consciousness the deck was 
deserted. All was still about the ship. It was broad 
daylight. I arose with difficulty and looked around. 
Tlie first object of which I got a distinct idea, was the 
dead body of Mr. Dory. I thought I heard a noise in 
the wheel-house. I went there, hoping to find some 
one alive. It was the breathing of the giant sailor had 
attracted me. He was lying on his back, a loathsome 
object. His eyes and nose had been shot away, appa¬ 
rently by a close discharge. Did Captain Thims do 
this? and was that first report the one ? So I thought, 
as I turned away. Dead bodies were lying thickly all 
around. Tlie conflict had been bravely sustained. 
Senk—the good Senk—was among the dead; and 
Bill, too, and Captain Thims, the first mate, and 
many more, I found and recognized fhern one by 


TEAVELLEKS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 133 

one. Yet they were not all there. The strife must 
have been continued below, thought I, and approached 
the hatchway for the purpose of descending. Sud¬ 
denly I heard steps and strange sounds below. They 
approached. What could I do ? Flight was absurd. 
I had, then, been left for dead. The fiends were yet 
on board. Fear chained me to the spot. In a few 
moments a huge, fiat, bushy head, with small tiger 
eyes, thick, pug nose, and monstrous mouth, showed 
itself. It contemplated me for a short space, with a 
greedy grin. Another moment and I was in a grasp 
of iron. My hands and feet were quickly tied, and I 
was laid on my back to await the caprice of my captor. 

From my position I could not see what was going 
on; but from what I could hear, I concluded the 
savages were plundering the ship at their leisure. I 
lay perhaps an hour, when my captor came, and tak¬ 
ing me up as he would have taken up a bundle of 
merchandise, handed me down the side of the ship to 
his comrades, who stowed me away among some 
boxes and trunks, and left me to myself. 

Imagining death could not be very immediate, 
I gradually gave way to the stupor which sought 
possession of me, and fell asleep. The effects of 


134 


GEEEN MOUIsTAIN 


several causes conspired to plunge me into a deep, 
dreamless slumber, in wliicli I remained till late in tbe 
afternoon. I awoke to find myself aboard of a large, 
rougb-bewn, sort of an ancient galley. It bad one 
sail, an irregular shaped sheet, intended for square, 
and it was steered by means of a long oar. There 
were five other large boats like the one I was on, 
besides several small craft manned by six to twelve 
men each. Their course seemed to be southeast. 
On board the concern which carried me, I counted 
thirty men—all huge ^ and muscular, apparently 
picked. There was no deck—only a kind of cabin in 
the afterpart, in which the master sat enthroned like 
a monarch:—indeed, he was king, as it afterwards 
appeared,—chieftain of the whole swarm. I was on 
board the admiral! 

My bonds having been removed during my sleep, 1 
was free to walk, and scrutinize as inclination 
directed. After forming an idea of my general situa¬ 
tion, I followed up my investigations, and became 
quite interested in the phenomena transpiring around 
me. The hideous forms of the beings that peopled 
the squadron all looked pretty much alike, differing 
only in degrees of hideousness. Their motions were 


TEAVELLERS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 135 

awkward, and clumsy like black bears’, and sly:—• 
everything was done second-handed. If one wished 
to pick his nose, for instance, he would put up his 
hand and scratch the backside of his head, and then 
slide his hand clandestinely forward under his chin, 
and so on, up to his nose, dabbing it a little, and 
finally making a gesture with the hand to cover the 
manoeuvre. Their language was inexpressible, at 
least it seemed so literally. Of all the lingual incon¬ 
gruities that made Babel a tower of nonsense, I think 
this must have been the most unconformable. The 
act of speech to them was apparently an act of partial 
strangulation, into which they were perseveringl^ 
plunging and recovering from doubtfully, to the great 
distortion of the countenance and of the whole body. 
If an orator had existed among them, I think the 
effect of his elocution must have depended upon 
his actual death by strangulation, and a syncope of 
the auditory through giving applause. 

After amusing myself for a time with contemplat¬ 
ing and comparing, I became sensible of a great 
hunger prowling within. I approached my captor, 
whom I knew by a deep scar in his forehead, and 
asked him for food, as well as I could by signs. Dis- 


136 . 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN 


guising the act with a feint or two, he fu:itively drew 
forth from a bag which hung before him, a piece of 
dried meat, and gave me. In my hunger I ate vora^ 
ciously, not noticing until I came to the last morsel 
that it had a texture and flavor entirely new; and I 
did not stop to think of it then, but asked him for 
more. He lifted up the leopard-skin robe that was 
slung loosely over him, and displaying his brawny 
thigh, made a carving motion upon it, and shook 
the empty bag. How was I to understand this? To 
signify he had nO more, shaking the bag would have 
been sufficient. Why carve his thigh in that imagi¬ 
nary way? The idea must not be harbored. I 
should starve. I walked away. But the idea clung 
to me like a repulsive i^dor; it impregnated me like 
a di’ug, deeper and deeper. Dizzy, nauseated, I went 
to the side of the boat, and there my stomach 
promptly performed its disagreeable function. I 
was freed, and thankful. Human flesh! Could a 
Christian conscience, much less a Christian stomach, 
bear such aliment ? I chose starvation rather. 

Quietly and beamingly the day passed on its 
western journey: sadly and quietly the night closed 
in. As the last soft flush of evening twilight melted 


TKAVELLERS ENTERTAINMENT. 


*137 


from the skirts of night, a sea-bird went wailing into 
the far west. The sound was so mournful that even 
the grim savages looked after it, and at each other, 
soberly. Oh ! how unexpressibly mournful it was to 
me ! The novelty of my situation had diverted me 
from recalling the horrors of the past night. ITow 
they came back, overwhelming me as a tide. Gould 
I have wept, could I have sighed, it might have 
eased my heart; but sighs and tears were a mockery. 
I felt suffocated with the burden. I thought of the 
sweet picture upon which my soul had feasted the 
evening before; of the little boy’s fright; of the old 
sailor’s prophecy; of my dream, and the smiling 
face of the beautiful bride as she waved her lily 
hand, and of her prophetic words; of the brave men 
rushing to the deck, and I strove to imagine the ter¬ 
rific struggle for life upon that deck, slippery with 
blood; of the descent of the frightful fiends, after 
finishing their sanguine work above. There my 
mind stopped; I could not think of what followed ; 
but the vague impression dwelt upon me, saddening 
me almost to a swoon. I grew faint and stupid, and 
sinking down among the boxes, I fell into another 
deep sleep. I slept soundly until morning, waking, 


138 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


as the day broke, to a dream of home. I was yet in 
the midst of it, when the sun’s rays flashing over the 
sea, drove the soothing visitant from me. 

As the morning advanced, I happily made a dis¬ 
covery of a chest of Christian food, which had been 
preserved as a curiosity I suppose, and amused the 
crew by eating a long time unreservedly therefrom. 
My breakfast refreshed me so much that I felt quite 
resigned to my dubious state. The day passed 
dismally and monotonously, and another night came 
on. A brisk northwest breeze set in at sunset, 
blowing steadily until near midnight. Towards 
morning a heavy storm passed far to the south, flash¬ 
ing and thundering grandly, and by daylight the sea 
around us ran pretty high. One of the boats 
capsized, unloading itself very promiscuously. The 
living part of the cargo was saved, but the balance 
was lost. The sea, however, grew calm after a short 
time, and the northwest breeze rising again, the 
squadron went on its way. 

About three o’clock we hove in sight of laud. A 
large, red flag was immediately run up from the 
admiral, and in a few minutes a like signal appeared 
on the distant shore j whereupon a general strangu- 


travellers’ entertainment. 139 

^ation took place, ultimating in a deep howl that was 
awful to listen to. 

Just before sunset we came to land, a most dreary¬ 
looking beach, opening up into an uneven, sterile 
prospect. About twenty beasts of burden, little 
larger than good-sized dogs, stood ranged, tails sea¬ 
ward, waiting for booty. While the vessels were being 
unloaded, I saw one package which, from their hand¬ 
ling it very carefully, attracted my attention. It was 
a long wicker basket covered with white cloth. My 
curiosity was strangely excited, and being on shore 
I determined to know wdiat it was. So I walked 
directly to it, and putting my hand upon the top, 
presently discovered it to contain something living. 
Oh, my heart! how it leapt! I conjectured the truth, 
Hastily tearing the screen away, I saw, pale and 
emaciated, yet conscious, the little Spanish maiden, 
dearest of all whom I had supposed dead. She 
recognized me at once, and smiled, putting up her 
hand as though to greet me. I took it, overwhelmed 
with the tenderest emotions. ^ 

‘‘ Is there none but you she asked feebly. I 
shook my head, pressing the dear httle hand 
fervently. 


140 


GliEEN MOUNTAIN 


“ Will they kill us she asked apprehensively. 

“ I don’t know,” I replied. “ If they do we will 
die together.” 

She pressed my hand now in turn, and raised her 
head a little, as though to kiss me, or for me to kiss 
her. I did not stop to inquire, hut getting down on m;y 
knees, pressed my lips to hers, dizzy with emotion. 
Then I lifted her out of her cradle, as I would have 
lifted a babe, tenderly assisting her to her feet, and 
she stood leaning upon my arm. On her expressing 
a desire to walk, we proceeded together a short dis¬ 
tance along the beach. As we walked, she told me. 
that she had occupied that basket ever since the 
morning which had risen upon that fearful night, 
partaking of food but once, though they had offered 
it to her many times; she could not eat, she was so 
very sad, thinking of her father and mother, and 
little brother gone. As we were returning she asked 
my name. I told her. 

“Anne is my English name,” she said. “You 
shall be my brother, Philip, while we live. If they 
don’t kill us, we will run away from these ugly men 
some day, and go home to Borneo, and you shall live 
with me, and we will live together for ever.” Poor 


travellers’ entertainment. 14:1 

sailor boy! Without protection amidst a horde of 
cannibals, and with so little power to protect, what a 
charge was his ! I have often in solitary moments 
recalled the feelings of that night, and wondered at 
the manliness with which I bore up against des¬ 
pair. 

After unloading their boats, the savages, except 
four, returned to them, and drifted off with the tide 
just ebbing. The four w^ho remained fell assisting 
the drivers, and before it was entirely dark the beasts 
of burden were packed and ready for departure. 
They deliberated some time concerning us. Finally 
they took the wicker basket, and strapping it ingeni¬ 
ously to one of the animals, lifted Anne up carefully, 
and placed her in it. Then putting the rope, which 
was around the beast’s neck, in my hand, bade me 
by signs to lead on, which I did most willingly. 

The guide, or director, went a short space ahead, 
and the whole cavalcade followed slowly. 

About midnight we entered a low dense thicket, 
through which we groped for some time, coming 
out at last right upon a little huddle of rude tents, 
which looked very white in the clear moonlight. 
There were twenty-five, perhaps thirty of them— 


142 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


close together, the openings for entrance occurring in 
every possible relative position to each other. 

Here we halted. About a score of women, and as 
many children, were immediately present, coming 
from nowhere that I could see, and joined eagerly in 
unpacking and lugging off the booty. While this 
was going on. I helped Anne to dismount. I had 
hardly accomplished it when we were closely 
thronged with a new swarm of children. They 
seemed to stand in no sort of awe, but were on the 
contrary most impudently curious—investigating our 
persons very annoyingly. This we resisted gently 
at first. They grew furious; and one of them, a 
squatty, dwarfish-looking thing, struck Anne a hard 
blow on her arm. Regardless of what the conse¬ 
quences might be, I returned the blow with all the 
force I could muster, and it was a hard one, I assure 
you. The little imp turned a complete summersault, 
and lay stretched out senseless. This summary act 
seemed to terrify the rest, and they disappeared like 
shadows. The next visitation was the women. 
Having discharged their manual duties, they came 
around us, and at once entered upon an examinatioi.. 
One felt my arms and legs, and taking my hand. 


rRAVELLEKS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 


143 


pinched up the hall of my thumb and the flesh on 
the side. Then looking around at her companions, 
she made a motion of carving the flesh ofi*. One of 
them, who seemed to be very old, and whose face I 
saw clearly by the moonlight, responded to the 
motion with a grin, while the saliva drivelled out of 
her mouth. 

I was glad they saw no such enticement in Anne, 
and I was also glad to see that Anne did not appre¬ 
hend the import of what was going on. 

Tlie examination, afterwards more desultory, con¬ 
tinued for some time. When it was done, we were 
led around through various windings, through two or 
three tents, until we came to one lower and more 
oblong than the rest. Into this we were pushed, and 
the opening carefully folded after us. In the middle 
of the tent, on the ground, resting in an iron mortar, 
was a large spermaceti candle burning. By the 
light of this, we discovered two piles of blankets, one 
in each end of the tent, and the chest of food from 
which I had fed while on board the boat. After par¬ 
taking from the chest, we retired to forget in sleep 
for a few hours, the terrors with which we were sur¬ 
rounded. 


144 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


I awoke at day-break; but Anne slept on quietly, 
and I sat by her watching her slumbers. As I s£tt 
looking upon her placid face, my mind recurred to 
our situation, and I speculated by turns hopefully 
and despondingly, upon our immediate destiny. 1 
thought not much, and cared less about myself. The 
sweet creature before me was my care. They would 
kill us no doubt, thought I,—murder us as cannibals 
ever murder their victims. But I knew what canni¬ 
bals were. I knew they would not kill us then—that 
day, nor that week; perhaps not for months. We 
were not then fit for their worse than hellish repast. 
We might get away from them. If not, I might per¬ 
suade them to spare Anne, and deliver her up to 
her friends, representing to them the certainty of 
their reaping thereby large sums of gold. I should 
have learned their language, so as to tell them this. 
Thus thinking and planning, I sat watching her as 
she slept. After a while her sleep was less quiet. A 
vivid dream seemed to possess her. She smiled. Her 
eyelids quivered as with joy. She made a blind 
motion with her hand, stroking tenderly the rough 
blanket, and smiled again, while tears oozed forth, 
gathering in little drops upon her long eyelashes. 


travellers’ entertainment. 145 

rhen a deep shadow of sadness suddenly darkened 
every feature, and she was awake. “ O, Philip I 
is he gone?” she exclaimed in a tone of deepest 
anguish. 

Who ?” I asked, almost weeping from sympathy, 
80 wildly pathetic was her tone and manner. 

“ Dear little brother. Oh, what a sweet dream I 
have had!” she continued, relapsing into the memory 
of it. “ I cannot tell it to you. So pretty he looked 
standing by me. He would not stay. Put he went 
away c[uickly, as I have heard my mother say angels 
fly away, up towards the sky, so quick I did not see 
where he went. Is it morning, Philip ?” 

I assured her it was, and directly brought her 
something to eat. 

She ate a little, and then putting the unfinished 
morsel back into my hand, and covering her face, she 
began to weep most bitterly. I soothed her as well 
as I could, asking her again and again why she wept. 
When she had recovered her voice, she told me that 
at the evening meal before that awful night, she had 
shared just such a cake with her little brother. Soon 
she became quite calm. Yet the incident had taken 
her back to those dreadful scenes, and from a melan- 
7 


146 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


cholj interest in them, I suppose, she asked me to 
narrate what happened to me after they went below 
to retire. This I did, as near as my emotions would 
allow. When I had finished, I in turn asked her to 
tell what befell her. “O, Philip, how can I tell you ? 
It is so dreadful,” she began, shuddering. “ Put I 
will tell you, if I can,” she continued after a pause. 
“I was asleep with little brother, and mother and 
father in one room. In another, with a door be¬ 
tween, was sister and Carlos. When I awoke, father 
was holding the door: mother was helping him. I 
was frightened, and began to cry. My sister then 
came in, and a little while after, Carlos went to help 
father. He said they had done trying to get in at 
his door, and were all trying to get in there. My 
sister came to me, and put her anns around me, and 
told me we had all to die that night, and told me to 
look for her when I would be in the spirit world. I 
heard dreadful noises outside,—men swearing, and 
saying they were killed; and snarling noises like 
tigers and lions fighting together. Sister looked so 
pale I was afraid of her. Little brother awoke and 
cried just as he did that evening. He cried just as 
he did then—‘ Don’t let them take me, mother.’ I 


TRAVELLERS ENTERTAIN^IENT. 


147 


began to feel brave when little brother cried, and I 
tried to hush him. Carlos went into the other room 
for his sword. When he came back, he told sister 
that the crew seemed to be all dead, and now he and 
father must fight. He went to the door again. I 
heard a loud noise like a gun outside, and father let 
go of the door and fell back. Mother caught hold of 
him, so that he did not quite fall down ; but he could 
not stand up, and mother and sister helped him to the 
bed and he lay down. He was very pale, and he put 
both hands on his breast, and gasped very hard. I 
went up to the bed. Mother and sister were bending 
over him and crying. I put my arms around him. 
He said, ‘ O my God!’ in Spanish, and breathed a 
long breath. My mother and sister cried louder, and 
said he was dead. I put my face upon his hand and 
cried, too. The noise outside came so much louder, 
that I looked up. The door was open, and Carlos 
was standing before it, striking as hard as he could 
with his sword at the awful looking men that were 
trying to get in. A monstrous man fell into the 
room, dead. The head of another one tumbled over 
Carlos’ shoulder upon the floor. Mother, sister, and 
brother and I went into sister’s room. My mother 


148 


GBEEN MOUNTAIN 


put her arms around little brother and me, and sat 
down in one corner. Sister walked the room, wring'- 
ing her hands, and saying in Spanish, ‘ O ! my hus¬ 
band I They will kill him. They will kill him. 
O ! mother, what shall I do ?’ Then she tried to go 
out and help Carlos. My mother would not let her. 
While they were struggling, my sister tried hard to 
go. I heard another sound like a gun, and Carlos 
came running in, and tried to shut the door after him. 
But a very large black man—I saw the same man 
last night—pressed close in after him, and they grap¬ 
pled with each other. Tlie last I remember, they 
were struggling dreadfully. 

When I came to myself, I was tied and lying on 
the floor. I could not stir. 'No one was near me as 
I could see, and so I did not cry for help, but lay 
there a long time very still. When I was almost 
exhausted, lying there so still, those frightful black 
men came and took me up. As they were carrying 
me out, I saw Carlos lying in sister’s arms. They 
were deadly pale, and their clothes bloody. I think 
they were both dead.—Oh, it makes me feel so lonely 
now to think of it! I was afraid of the black men, 
and did not feel so then. 1 did not see mother, nor 


travellers’ entertainment. 149 

little brother.—Oh, I am so lonely, Philip. “ Why do 
you weep, Philip ? It is past now. I shall not cry any 
more.’’ She sat up, and twined her fingers in my 
hair, begging me not to weep. But I could not help 
it.—So sad a tale! and to my ear so sweetly told! 

It was nearly noon. She arose, and we went toge¬ 
ther to the chest and partook of food. She ate quite 
plentifully, and declared herself much renewed, 
desiring to walk out. This we did. To our great 
surprise, we saw no one. The village seemed wholly 
deserted. Satisfied, from careful examination, that 
it was really so, a plan presented itself immediately 
to my mind, and I determined to carry it directly into 
execution. I proposed it to Anne. Her judgment 
agreed with mine. We would make our escape! In 
a few minutes we were ready, having packed some 
food in a small bag which we found amongst the rub- 
.^ish of the tent. 

We struck directly into the thicket, and made for 
the sea-shore, whence we had come. We travelled 
slowly all that afternoon, neither seeing nor hearing 
anything of our captors. Besting a little at sunset, 
and taking some food, we travelled on until midnight. 
Anne had borne up under the fatigue remarkablj 


150 


GREEN Mountain 


bnt now her tottering step and laborious breathing 
admonished me of the necessity of repose. So, look-r 
ing out a sheltered place—it was a small cave in the 
side of a hill—I smoothed a little space, and, sitting 
down, took her in my arms, placing her head upon 
my bosom. She was soon asleep, and I sat thus hold¬ 
ing her until morning. She awoke greatly refreshed, 
and we went on our way. We had not gone far 
when we came in sight of the sea. A great difficulty 
upon which I had not counted, now presented itself. 
The sea would put an end to our path. We had 
no boat. “ Perhaps we shall find one on the beach,” 
said Anne. Perhaps. We would try. We soon 
arrived at the water’s edge. !N*o boat could we 
see. We walked along the beach a mile or more. 
Still no boat. I found an oar. As we walked on, 
almost despairing, Anne stumbled. What was it ? It 
looked like a keel. It was one. With my oar I dug 
away the sand and pebbles. It was a boat buried in 
the sand. With considerable labor I removed it, and 
launched it. We consigned ourselves to it, floating 
slowly out upon the deep. There was a gentle breeze 
seaward, and making a mast of my oar, and a sail of my 
jacket, we drifted quite rapidly and pleasantly far out, 


travellers’ entertainment. 161 

losing sight of land before night. When it was 
entirely dark I took down the sail, and making as 
comfortable a place as I could for Anne, I watched 
her and the sea, while she slept. I watched awhile, 
and then fell asleep myself. Neither of us awoke 
until daybreak, and then both awoke together, to give 
^orth a shout of rapturous joy. We were but a short 
distance away from a ship, and within speaking dis¬ 
tance of a boat which had been sent out to pick us 
up. We were shortly on board. It was an American 
vessel, hailing from Boston, and homeward bound. 
Anne wanted to get off at Borneo, but unfavorable 
winds bore us far to the northward of that port, , and 
it was deemed impracticable to put back. She went 
with me to Boston. ’Ilie captain of the ship, a 
benevolent man, took a deep and friendly interest in 
her, and took her to his own house. I engaged 
myself in his service, and wrote to my parents. 
Before leaving port, I had the great happiness of see¬ 
ing my father and mother, and of consigning my 
orphan charge to them. What became of her after¬ 
wards, as well as what befell me, would double the 
length of my story to relate. I will not enter upon 
it. When I began, I thought I would tell you all 


152 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


about my experience as a sailor; but it is getting 
quite late, and I must quit here in the middle,—fully 
conscious, by the by, that I have discharged my obli¬ 
gation in the way of story-telling. However, 1 
cannot leave it without stating, that the little Spanish 
maiden became one day a wife, and the sailor boy a 
husband, and—^father. 


TRAVELLERS ENTERTALE^MENT. 


153 


CHAPTER Y. 

It was bed-time, late bed-time, after midnight, 
when the supposed lawyer brought his narration to a 
close. A general stretching and yawning immedi¬ 
ately ensued, accompanied with a casual consultation 
of watches, and sundry mingled allusions to some of 
the incidents of the story, and to the necessity of 
sleep. Our lean friend of the bar had yielded to that 
necessity, as we discovered on approaching for lights, 
and was, as it seemed, laboring with vile imaginings 
of a piratical or other bloody character. His counte¬ 
nance bore an expression of great horror, which with 

the slight, yet significant motions of his hands, indi- 
✓ 

cated that he was desperately resisting some awful 
bugbear or other. The Quaker touched him with his 
cane. He exploded with a wild shout of terror that 
awoke him at once, and completely. 

“ You should go better armed, my dear fellow,” 
remarked the Quaker. He made no reply, being 

7 * 


154 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


evidently offended at onrmerriment, and hastening to 
comply with our demand for lights, directed us in a 
general way to our places of repose, whither we 
retired to dream or reflect, or both in one, as the 
mind’s tone chanced to be. 

How the rest of the company enjoyed the night I 
do not know. My sleep was very calm, I remember; 
and the cold grey morning came quite too soon for 
me. The morning was indeed cold and grey. The 
sun, judging from appearances, did not rise at all— 
only sending a delegation of light, which like delega¬ 
tions generally, seemed to have mostly forgotten the 
pui'pose of its sending. A kind of dense mist that 
was not quite rain, but if anything wetter than rain, 
filled all the nether atmosphere. There was a cold, 
north wind, too, a wind such as causes the mercury in 
old- men’s bones to sink gratingly. It blew with a 
whistling sound, around the old building, and roared 
away most gloomily, like flying ghosts, through the 
stinted forest which bordered a neighboring stream. 

The transition from the warm bed to my ungenial 
pantaloons was so disagreeable that it put me quite 
out of humor, and looking out at the little four-paned 
window of my apartment, to assure myself that I 


TRAVELLERS ENTERTAINMENT. 


165 


had not been dreaming about the weather, I took an 
oath, which was an oath, not to continue my journey 
that day. 

As we sat at the breakfast table, I overheard the 
two farmer-like looking men say one to the other, by 
way of exchange of remarks, that they should not go 
on until the sky cleared. This was a comfort. I 
should not be all alone. “ Do you think of sallying 
out to-day, sir,” inquired the Quaker of me. I 
answered emphatically in the negative, alluding to 
my oath. 

“ Quite singular!—the coincidence, I mean,” he 
said in reply; “I pledged myself between the bed and 
my pantaloons this morning to the same effect.” 

“ Well, I’ve taken no vow on the subject,” remarked 
the lawyer, supposed to be, “ but I think I shall try 
the effect of this latitude and longitude a little before 
going on. I’m in no hurry if the rest are not, I’m 
sure.” 

“This looks like staying,” said the grey-headed 
man, laughing. “ So it does,” gushingly responded 
the lawyer, partly in answer to the old man’s laugh. 

“ I believe I know what you want to stay for, too,” 
said the gyeyrheaded, farther, ^ith another laugh, 


156 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


“ Eh, you do poured out the lawyer again, amused 
at the old man’s laughable hilarity. Yes. It’s to 
hear them ’ere men’s stories there,” pointing to the 
Quaker and me. This remark seemed very aptly put 
in, evidently touching the secret inclinations of all, 
for the subject was immediately dropped, and no more 
brought up that day. 

After breakfast it occurred to me to suggest a 
reorganization for the purpose of continuing the 
entertainment. I did so while cigars were being lit. 
“ By no means; by-no-means,” responded the lawyer. 
“ In such a case we should have the day pleasantly 
passed it is true; but the night cometh, you know. 
That would hang, and hang us with it I’m afraid. Be 
prudent my dear sir. Bemember the foolish virgins. 
What do you say my friend ?” addressing the Quaker. 

“I will fall in with the majority when there shall 
be one,” replied the other. “ Well, that’s fair, spoken 
like a man, a true republican,” continued the law¬ 
yer, “and my point is carried, for I’m a majority 
in myself I” 

I succumbed, and formally withdrew my propo¬ 
sition, with reluctance, however, not exactly seeing 
the force of the lawyer’s logic, and being impatient 



TITR DATCnTER’s PRAYER. 

“ Mary, my dear child, a.sk God for hi« blessing—I am not fit—your heart Is 
pare.”— Pack 106. 


































travellers’ enxprtainment. 157 

to hear what the Quaker might have for us. “ But 
how are you going to pass the day V’ I asked by way 
of covering my retreat. 

“ Pass it if you can; if you can’t, let it pass you,— 
it will be all the same. I intend to follow this advice, 
brother, and can conscientiously offer it Moreover, 
what I say unto you, I say imto all. I have spoken.” 
Delivering himself of this facefiousness, the lawyer 
strode out to take a view of the weather. He 
directly returned, full of animation, declaring he had 
a new idea, a return of an old want, which he had 
looked upon as among things past to come back no 
more, namely, a desire to go a-fishing. “ And now,” 
he concluded, “ will any one go along ?” Ho one 
seemed so much disposed to join him as the Quaker, 
and out of politeness none of the rest of us offered. 
They were soon in readiness, two oilcloth overalls, and 
fishing tackle being raised, and started off full of 
mock anticipation and glee. 

The two farmers fell into a pleasant vein of inform* 
ing each other of the promising prospects of the live 
stock trade; of the best manner of procuring as well 
as of curing said stock; of the celebrated standard 
male progenitors in the cattle line, in the horse line, 


158 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


and so on and so forth, much varied, and with great 
relish. The jolly old man listened, became interested 
by degrees, and joined in the conversation. I listened, 
and lost interest in about the same ratio that he 
gained it, and finally went to my room. I ordered a 
comfortable fire to be built, and taking pencil and 
paper, amused myself with sketching down, as nearly 
as I could remember, the two stories of the past 
evening. Busied with this, the day passed so 
pleasantly away, that I forgot my dinner totally, and 
was surprised into a consciousness of the fact by the 
unmistakable approach of night. I went down stairs, 
and into the bar-room, just in time to receive the 
fishers. “We have not escaped the proverbial fisher¬ 
man’s luck,” cheerfully announced the Quaker. 

“ ITo sir,” confirmed the lawyer, emphatically. 
“ However, we have something more than local 
saturation. Look here, will ye?” They were both 
dripping wet. “Ho fault of ours, however, let it be 
inserted,” continued the lawyer. 

“But of that great fish, eh?” suggested the 
Quaker, comically. 

“ Of that great fish,” returned the other. The 
Quaker laughed heartily ; and, as soon as he could 


TRAVELLERS ENTERTAINMENT. 


169 


be beard, tbe lawyer related tbe circumstance. 
They were both on a log at tbe time—a log, one end 
of wbicb floated in tbe stream. At one and tbe 
same instant tbeir books caugbt, or something caugbt 
tbe books—tbe latter it seemed was tbe supposition of 
tbe lawyer—and pulling bard and entbusiastically, 
they were both drawn, as tbe lawyer asserted, into 
tbe water. Fortunately it proved to be only neck- 
deep, and they succeeded in getting out, and in 
recovering their fishing poles. The books, though, 
remained fast, and they continued pulling until at last 
both books broke, and they were compelled to desist. 
We were yet laughing at the incident and tbe 
lawyer when supper was made known. Waiting 
only so long as was necessary for our wet friends to 
change their garments, we proceeded in a body to 
tbe passive table, and demonstrated our carnality in 
a most vigorous manner, and with agreeable results, 
for tbe space of half an hour or so. Just as I began 
to see clearly through tbe operation, having fixed my 
eye and mind upon tbe morsels I would eat and no 
more, tbe fact came to me, that I might soon be 
standing, or more probably sitting, before tbe pre¬ 
sent company in tbe character of social entertainer. 


160 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


It was a serious thing, more so as 1 was disagreeably 
conscious of sore deficiency. The consideration 
threw me into a fit of absence, which directly 
attracted the lawyer’s attention. 

‘‘ You men take it to heart very much, don’t you?” 
he said, rallyingly. I looked around. The Quaker 
was smiling assent. He, too, had been absent. 

“ What do you mean ?” said I, with assumed 
innocence. 

“ Oho ! what do you mean I” laughingly retorted 
the other. You’ve no idea of getting out of it I 
hope. Hang your pluck, if you do. Here we’ve 
been waiting all day, so our venerable friend here 
asserts, and probably believes, for the sole pui’pose of 
having our fun out, and now we ”- 

“ Oh, I apprehend your allusion now,” said I, 
coming out of my hypocrisy ; “ you touch upon the 
matter of story-telling. Don’t be frightened, sir. 
The heaven is not falling. But bear in mind Z ought 
to be excused, for I wanted the thing to go along in 
the morning, and you opposed.” 

Opposed on good grounds, sir, as will presently 
be, if it 4ias not already been, disclosed unto you.” 
And so the subject was dropped. 



travellers’ entertainment. 161 

Supper being satisfactorily concluded, we adjourned 
to the bar-room, to undergo a general surprise at the 
change which had suddenly taken place in the 
weather. The sun had just set, smiling a resplen¬ 
dent twilight over all the western heavens, while the 
dismal clouds were folding themselves away into the 
southeast, looking intensely black. From the south 
came a soft breeze, mild, like an infant’s breath, and 
fragrant—^most gratefully fragrant and genial— 
renewing life and thought—old life and old thought, 
thought that came of memories, tender as the wind 
itself, and floating like that in sweet gushes from a 
sunny zone! 

The porch was on the south side of the house, and 
we were all standing there silently contemplating 
and enjoying, when our lean attendant drew our 
attention by approaching with four chairs and 
arranging them. Under the circumstances we 
needed no plainer suggestion, and, waiting politely 
until two more chairs were added, which the ema¬ 
ciated speedly brought, we sat down without reserve, 
continuing silent the while—a meditative mood 
prevailing. 


162 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


The glowing twilight became less glowing, fading 
elowlj and serenely, and the evening star came out in 
its midst, a living gem upon its bosom. Then it 
grew fainter, and the cheerful star grew brighter, 
—^brighter, like hope in death. The moon began to 
cast faint shadows from earthly objects, silvering the 
wet leaves of the trees and bushes, silvering the 
fences, and barn roof, and the hay-stacks in the 
distant tneadow, all the while looking down with its 
honest, half-bandaged countenance, a very saint of 
benevolence. 

The twilight was nearly gone. The evening star 
was setting. The moon was in its glory. The soft 
south-wind blew yet soothingly, and wafting fra¬ 
grance as of many flowers, when the lawyer, rising 
with great gravity, announced that the hour had 
arrived, yea, the minute, which he intended to 
celebrate by requiring a continuance of the last 
night’s entertainment. “ It becomes then my painful 
necessity to renew my staff of office. I wish it to be 
considered therefore, that I am duly in the chair— 
or shall be in a moment—and—let us have a 
motion.” Eager to escape the ordeal for the present, 


travellers' entertainment. 163 

L promptly motioned that the Quaker he appointed. 
In due form the motion was carried, and the Quaker 
declared chosen. Upon which we arranged our¬ 
selves the better to listen, and sat waiting in the 
most profound silence for what might come forth. 


164 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


CHAPTEK YI. 

You are undoubtedly aware,—thus the Quaker 
began, while we were eagerly listening,—that it is 
embarrassing for one to attempt the keeping up of an 
entertainment of this kind. You are aware that a 
good joke rarely brooks a companion, even of the 
same order; that a fine touch of sentiment goes over 
the heart complete in itself, and would lose its single¬ 
ness and come short of its proper depth of effect by 
the intrusion of another, however fine. To feel the 
last, finest vibration of a tone of music, it must go on 
undisturbed. To feel the last, deepest tremor of senti¬ 
ment in the centre of our being—that tremor which 
angels in sympathy catch, and breathe back a wave of 
bliss that is of heaven—there must be no intrusion. I 
make these remarks in view of the passages from the 
soul uttered here last night. I make them, too, partly 
in view of the genial circumstances that have sur 


travellers’ ENTERTArtmENT. 165 

rounded ns for the last hour, speaking to ns mysteri¬ 
ously of other times and seenes, of other hopes and 
joys; for I fear my voiee will he a discord, the ima¬ 
ges which my words will present, unwelcome to you. 
Indeed it is embarrassing, though I have no doubt 
you will be lenient. 

When this matter was suggested last evening, I 
had no idea, as I sujipose none of you had, that it 
would take such a turn as it has. And again, 
in view of the necessity of continuing in the same 
strain that has characterized the entertainment thus 
far, I feel a hesitancy. The others have made their 
own life the theme. I must do so too ; or, being alto¬ 
gether inexperienced in weaving fiction, my narrative 
will be a wretched mockery. It is compelling one 
to straits disagreeable, and yet agreeable, too, withal. 
However, I will not tire you with more extended 
preface. My story will be long and tame at best, as 
it now appears to my mind, and the sooner I enter, 
the sooner, relatively speaking, I shall get out. 

I have said I should have to draw upon my own 
experience, chiefiy for want of other. I will com¬ 
mence with my boyhood as the most convenient 
point, and continue until—elaboration shall have 


166 


GREEN MOUDTTAIN 


ceased to be a virtue, if you please. I will dis¬ 
creetly confine myself to the region of memory, going 
no further back than I can vouch for with an unsul¬ 
lied conscience, which is to the age when my boy¬ 
hood began. I was called Deacon, and happily was 
the nickname conceived, if we may link the primitive 
association with that word ; for no antiquated family 
cow, ruminating in the abundant shade at summer 
noon-tide, was ever less designing than 1. The impulse 
of the heart was not always spoken, it is true; but 
when speech or action did make manifest the goings 
on within, it was with utter singleness—unequivocal 
straightforwardness. 1 never told a lie, I think, during 
the whole of my long boyhood—except once, and then 
it was concerning a little girl about whom I was very 
much bored. This little girl kissed me once, and 
some one saw it done, and afterwards asked me about 
it. I denied it point blank, and stuck faithfully to 
the denial. This lie my conscience never has dis¬ 
turbed, and I doubt whether it could anywhere be 
found in the Book of Human Discrepancies. They 
called me Deacon so much, and so seldom mentioned 
my proper name, that I fell into the way of thinking I 
had no other, and used to tell inquiring strangers, with 


TRAVELLERS ENTERTALNMENT. 


167 


the utmost sincerity, and mucli to their amusement, 
that my name was Deacon Munn. Yet I had ano¬ 
ther nickname. It was “Hashy.” One cheerful 
little being always called me Hashy. It was the lit¬ 
tle girl whom I have alluded to. A sweet, lovel;y 
creature she was—that little girl;—always happ^ 
when those around her were so, and sad, tearful, when 
those she loved—and they were everybody—were 
sorrowful. She was my daily companion during 
those early days. When I was not at her house, she 
was at mine, coming always in the afternoon, soon 
after dinner, with the ever-glad announcement on 
her tongue, that her ‘‘ ma” had said she might stay 
till the short clock pointer was on the figure Y. 
She used to play with me in the house when it was 
winter; and in the spring we used to wander out 
together, away down into the old meadow, where 
there was a brook, a clear, pebbly-bottomed stream, 
that made mysterious music in its fiow. There we 
would sit for hours upon the bank, talking and mak¬ 
ing nosegays; and when we were tired, we used to 
listen to the low, strange music which the brook 
made, until we were sad, and felt a dim sense of awe 
creeping upon us. Ay, our souls felt a prophecy in 


168 


GREEN MOITNTAIN 


the music of that lonely stream wandering on to the 
Great Unknown. Too soon did she enter upon the 
fulfillment of that prophecy,—too long has that ful¬ 
fillment been kept from me 1 

In the summer we went to school together, about 
half a mile away, to the old country district school- 
house. I used to stop for her regularly in the morn¬ 
ing on my way, and come back with her when school 
was out at night. Sometimes we played by the 
road-side, and then it would be sunset before we 
reached her home, and I would be left to go to my 
home alone. But it was not far—only a couple of 
hundred yards or so, and 1 always imagined she 
would be at my side to help me if anything should 
happen, which kept away fear. In the autumn she 
came again to see me—there being no school. Yet 
not so often, the weather was so rainy and bluster¬ 
ing, and she was feeble in body. I was grown older, 
too, and they began to rally me about my little wife 
—some boorish loafers of the neighborhood. This 
made me ashamed to go and see her, and so we met 
less frequently. Yet her presence was ever dear to 
me, as the memory of it now. About that time it 
was she kissed me—only once—she never kissed me 


TRAVELI.ERS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 169 

again, and the lie was told which conscience has ever 
treated so benignly. 

Thus the first year—the outer circle of my recollec¬ 
tion—^passed on, becoming a treasure without price. 

The next summer I was a great deal older. I 
began to play marbles with larger boys, and had a 
ball; and I did not care so much about being with 
Seraph—that was the little girl’s name. Yet we 
were sometimes together as of old—played and 
walked together, and gave each other apples and 
keepsakes. 

When winter came again, I went to school and she 
stayed at home, and I saw her so seldom that I 
became quite alienated, so much so that when one 
day it was announced to me that she had gone to 
stay a year with a maiden aunt living at a distance, 
I did not care much about it, though a few days 
afterwards I had a melancholy spell of an hour or 
two—that was all. 

At school I made considerable proficiency, attain¬ 
ing to easy reading in a little time. The first 
impressions made upon me by reading, which I 
retain now, were of Poor Tray—world-renowned. 
That simple story entered deeply into my heart, the 


8 


170 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


deeper, perhaps, because of a circumstance yrhich 1 
will relate. It happened during the summer which 
Seraph was absent. 

Some three quarters of a mile from the school- 
house was a little artificial pond, belonging to one 
Abel Toom, a bleak old man who had died in his 
Youth—if he ever lived—leaving a hide-bound 
skeleton, moving and existing, a social incumbrance 
—a most dismal-looking object, indeed; he was an 
incorrigibly selfish being too, not altogether free 
from the charge of villainy. This old man guarded 
his pond—because, forsooth, it had a few lean fishes 
in it—with the most jealous care, encouraging nests 
of snakes at different points along the bank thereof, 
and being present himself upon most occasions, utter¬ 
ing hideous imprecations whenever any encroach¬ 
ment seemed impending. But I had never heard of 
his having done bodily harm, though often hearing 
of the ludicrous figure he cut in view of trespassing 
youngsters. 

One sultry afternoon in the latter part of summer, 
I was beset after school by a boy several years my 
senior, with the request to join a party that was 
going to vex old Abel, and if he should not be there, 


travellers’ entertainment. 171 

to go in a-swimming. I did not want to go on 
account of the company, and urged some reasons. 
These he met with so much derision, taking an oath 
that he would carry me down and duck me, and also 
including under his oath that he would tell the boys 
what a chicken-hearted fool I acted like, that, partly 
through fear, partly though spite, and a little through 
inclination, I acceded to his proposal. They were 
bad boys, and I knew it, but I went with them:— 
Poor Tray I 

Arrived at the pond, no Abel in sight. We at 
once divested ourselves of clothing and went into the 
water. After amusing ourselves for a time, it was 
suggested to take a ride in a boat, which was moored 
near by where we were. The suggestion was enthu¬ 
siastically acted upon, and we were soon in the deep 
waters, paddling away towards the middle of the 
pond, which was about a hundred yards across. We 
were in the midst of our enjoyment, one boy—the 
oldest—amusing the rest with a string of gratuitous 
jokes at old Abel’s expense, when—bang! went a 
gun from the shore whence we had taken the boat. 
What was it for ? The next moment we knew. Oh, 
flesh and bones ! what a smart 1 Oh !—cruel, intol- 


172 


geei:n mountain 


erable smart! ‘‘Salt!” cried one boy. “Salt! 
salt!” cried another. “ Salt, and thunder! he’ll kill 
us,” chimed the third, and they all jumped out into 
the water like so many frogs, leaving me alone, and 
swam for the opposite shore. I yelled lustily to them 
to come back and help me out of danger, as I could 
not swim nor row. But they plashed away, swim¬ 
ming desperately, and paid not the least attention to 
me.—Poor Tray ! I grabbed up the oars frantically, 
and attemped to use them; but between my awk¬ 
wardness and confusion they both got out of my 
hands into the water. While striving to recover 
them, bang! went the gun again. I fortunately 
escaped with but few grains of the second charge, 
but fear took complete possession of me. I jumped 
up and down in the boat and screamed in the wildest 
manner. Nothing could be more certain than a 
lingering death on the spot, I thought. A stray 
breeze wandered over the pond, which proved quite 
refreshing to me—it was so cooling to my burning 
skin—until I became aware that it was wafting me 
directly towards the place where stood the awful old 
man, whom I had conjectured from the first to be, 
and now saw clearly was, old Abel himself. Utter 


Til A S'El.LKllS KNTKliTA l.WMl^N r 


173 


despair set in, and I sank exhausted, and shrunk, 
lying flat in the bottom of the boat. In an incredi¬ 
bly short space of time the boat came within reach 
of a hook attached to a long pole in old Abeks hand, 
and the next instant the boat, with what there was 
left of me in it, was brought with a tremendous jerk 
upon the land. The bony hand grasped my arm. 
Death now was inevitable, and would be immediate 
—sitch was my vivid impression. But my dreadful 
apprehensions were directly dispelled by a great 
flood of surprise at his actions. “ Ahasuerus Munn’s 
boy, by G—d !” he growled, inspecting me. The 
discovery of my parentage seemed to astonish him a 
little, and abate his thirst for vengeance. He gently 
rubbed me all over with the palm of his hand, apply¬ 
ing water now and then, until the intense smarting 
was considerably assuaged. Perceiving the effect of 
his remedial efforts, he led me around to my clothes 
—^in the presence of which I almost cried, so long it 
seemed since I had put them off—and helping me on 
with them, he bade me go home quickly, and never 
be caught around his pond again—intimating more 
dreadful consequences in case I should be so caught. 

I went home; and as I went, the analogy between 


1T4 GREEN MOUNTAIN 

me and poor Tray arose distinctly upon my mind, 
and I felt almost like a brother to the little dog. 

I made more progress in reading and spelling, 
doing my school-mistress great honor, if her tale to 
my parents can be credited. The autumn came, and 
slowly went. Winter school again commenced, and 
under a new tutor I was initiated into the study of 
Geography. Anticipatory as I have always been, I 
had hardly become accustomed to my new book 
before I made search, and found the map of Penn¬ 
sylvania—my native State: and the very next place 
I looked for, after finding the shire-town of the 
county in which I lived, was that in which Seraph 
was staying. The impulse to look was altogether 
instinctive; but when I became clearly conscious of 
what I was about, a train of very moving recollec¬ 
tions came upon me, diverting me wholly from my 
search. I wanted to see her very, very much. I lost 
all interest in my studies, and even in my sports, and 
went around that day feeling quite melancholy. It 
w^as gone, however, with the day; but not till after I 
had questioned my mother concerning the dear one’s 
return. 

The winter lengthened, lengthened, getting tedious 


travellers’ entertainment. 175 

from its length, growing more and more tedious, 
until resignation took the place of despondency, 
and the hope for spring began to beam, and to point 
more confidently to the immediate future. Then the 
snow went off, beginning its aquatic journey one 
morning before light, and in two or three days it was 
all gone, carrying fences and barns with much live¬ 
stock from the bottom lands, and gouging many 
ravines of various depths—some quite formidable- 
in the bluffs. Three very exciting days, cloudy and 
misty—every sound, familiar and unattractive at 
other times, having strange loudness. After these 
days it was warm and pleasant. The grass began to 
grow; the birds to sing; the cattle went out upon 
the pastures. It was spring. Yet Seraph came not. 
The arrangements regarding her stay had been 
changed. She would not be at home until mid¬ 
summer. 

As the spring came tenderly, genially on, 1 was 
taken sick. A long illness it was, and painful, wast¬ 
ing me to skin and bones. For a time it was thought 
I never would recover. But nature prevailed at last. 
Before the summer, I was well again. It was during 
this illness that I first realized a mother’s love, a 


176 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


mother’s kindness; gentle sisters’ devotion, a father’s 
solicitude. Though it was many years before I 
learned the relative character of those who sur¬ 
rounded and administered unto me during this 
illness, yet, as I first began to perceive it then, and 
as it seems to me necessary to introduce them to you 
at this point, I will attempt a sketch. 

My mother was an excellent, old-fashioned woman 
—a kind of standard work on goodness and social 
propriety; faithfully attendant upon the sick and 
afflicted; always cordially the same to those with 
whom she associated. She was a thinking woman, 
too, and passably well-read—often speculating upon 
abstract subjects at the tea-table, to the edification of 
female neighbors or sojourners, to whom she was 
administering the rites of friendly entertainment or 
of hospitality. She had been blessed with a good 
education in early life, a sound culture, being indoc¬ 
trinated thoroughly, and sometimes spoke in public 
on the theme of a judgment and a world to come. All 
in all, she was quite a prominent character in the com¬ 
munity, and was pointed out to blooming daughters 
as an example worthy of their close imitation. 

My father was an austere man, being socially 


TRAVELLERS ENTERTAINMENT. 


177 


armed and equipped, impregnable always, and deal¬ 
ing out his personal cordiality homoeopatliically. Yet 
in a general way he was a friend indeed. Worldly 
goods had accumnlated almost insensibly around him 
until he could call his own much more than he 
needed. In fact, he was wealthy, and being ortho- 
doxically temperate, and unambitious of pecuniary 
distinction, he naturally felt the surplus a burden, 
and obedient to his impulse, he annually gave away, 
in one direction or another, hundreds of dollars. His 
specious mansion was always open, and often seemed 
like a public-house, except that those who partook, 
did so without money and without price. He had 
been a farmer from his youth up, and delighting 
more in muscular than in mental exercise, his deve¬ 
lopment had been chiefly in the former capacity. 
Still he was a man of excellent sense and every-day 
judgment. 

I had two sisters, one of them six, the other ten 
years older than I. They were happy girls—^plump, 
and rosy with health, perfect fountains of good 
nature, and unquenchable enjoyment. Morniug, 
noon or night they were ever ready with smiles and 
pleasant words to contribute happiness where it was 
8 * 


178 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


due. In intellectual peculiarities they were more 
after my father’s than my mother’s mould, being 
bright and apt, with good sense in practical affairs. 

We three were the only scions of the parent stoch, 
and most harmoniously did we live together. Yet 
being so much older than I, they were not exactly com¬ 
panions for me, and I felt it never more than during 
my slow recovery that spring. Besides, the elder 
sister, Delia by name, had begun to look with tender 
glance upon a certain young man in the vicinity, not 
very tender, but accompanied with a kind of melan¬ 
choly, and a mental absence which withdrew her from 
me to some degree. I longed for Seraph to come 
home. Though somewhat diverted by my asso¬ 
ciations at school, yet the desire deepened. At last 
she came. Bright, and cheerful as ever, she met me. 
She was grown much larger, yet looked the same in 
her sweet face,—was the same prattling creature. I 
stayed at home a week on purpose to visit her; and oh, 
the hours were happy and swift. The week was gone 
quite too soon. Thenceforward I was never alienated 
from her. I had become used to the excitement and 
novelty of attending school, and participating in the 
sports of my mates; I had ceased to be disturbed by 


travellers’ entertainment. 179 

the taunts of coarse wretches ; and I took her to my 
heart again more intelligently, more sincerely. She 
became as a sister to me, devotedly loved. 

Happy in a father’s and a mother’s love, happy in 
sisters’ love, happy in the companionship of Seraph; 
at harmony with my schoolmates, flattered and 
caressed by my tutors, I advanced smoothly along, 
developing in all human respects rapidly. One after 
another my pet sports passed out of fashion with me. 
Playing marbles first, then the pleasant variety that 
I drew from a little dog which one of my uncles gave 
me. Afterwards my kite with its dreamy liftings-up 
of my earnest soul, my Ashing tackle next—then 
my bow and arrows. One by one they engaged me, 
and were laid by, having lost their attractiveness, and 
I came pensively, seriously into that leafy passage of 
life, where, green to the centre, everything appears 
green, hopeful, brilliant, alluring. 

About thirteen years old I was. My sister Delia, 
full of ripeness and love as it is in woman’s nature to 
be at twenty-three years, had not resisted the twining 
advances of that certain young man, but had linked 
soft tendrils around his manly heart, drawing him 
closer, and they were iparried—as healthy, honest, 


180 


OREEN MOUNTAIN 


and mutually enjoyable a couple as ever went out on 
moonlight nights, to sit in fragrant arbors and kiss 
each other’s lips, thinking this world a paradise. 

In the midst of high rejoicings, of congratulations, 
blessings and glowing hopes, they retired from 
amongst us, going to a neighboring town to set up a 
new home of their own. 

This was an era in our family. A new entry was 
made in the family-Bible, on a new page, and an 
entire overhauling and shifting took place, ending 
in a new arrangement of all the old, familiar objects, 
making the whole house appear strange for some 
time. But everything settled down quietly after a 
wliile, and, old habits resuming sway, we became gra¬ 
dually accustomed to the loss, so that matters went 
on pretty much as before. 

As I had grown older, my intercourse with Seraph 
had become slightly tinged with reserve. She had 
become perceptibly timid in her bearing towards me. 
Still we met often, met by ourselves. But she would 
not let me take her hand or put my arm around her 
waist as I used to. There was a feeling within me, 
too, that forbade it. An inclination and a drawing 
back I had, and they both grew stronger. Wp had 


travellers’ entertainment. 181 

begun to love each other—not as brother and sister. 
Yet it was a bud that never bloomed ! 

One Monday morning in the summer after the mar¬ 
riage of my sister, which I ought to have before stated 
happened in April, I was surprised, on entering the 
school-room, to find Seraph’s desk vacant—the more 
so as the school had already been commenced some 
time. Her regularity in attendance had been 
remarkable; and I could not divest myself of the 
apprehension, that some evil had befallen her. I 
thought of it many times during the day, and made 
bold to inquire, immediately on my return home, if 
they knew where she was. “ Sick,” said my mother. 
“I have just come from there; she is very sick.” 
The announcement was for the moment like a dagger 
in my heart. I went away to my little bed-room up¬ 
stairs and cried. You may wonder somewhat at the 
depth of my attachment at that early age. I have 
wondered at it myself sometimes. Yet when I recall 
the singular earnestness of my disposition; the 
thousand circumstances that favored our intercourse; 
the exclusiveness of my affections, particularly 
towards females; the truly lovable character of the 
child, and her attachment to me ; my predisposition 


182 


GRTiEN MOUNTAIN 


for things and persons amiable and mild, being never 
fond of boisterous sports ;—when I recall these things, 
it does not seem strange. To be sure I had cronies 
among boys of my own age, and of similar cast, 
yet these attachments were brief—changing con¬ 
stantly. There was a social want—it had been always 
with me—^which none but Seraph could meet. That 
want was taking another and deeper hold. Hence, 
my solicitude. 

The next evening I inquired again with a tremb¬ 
ling voice. My mother was very sober. “ My son,” 
she answered, “I am afraid our Seraph is going to die.” 

‘‘Can I go and see her?” I asked, overpowered 
with anguish. 

“She is delirious,” replied my mother. “She 
would not know thee.” Oh, how it wrung my heart 
to hear this! I could eat no supper. And when I 
went to bed I could not sleep, I could think of nothing 
but her. I would not go to sleep. It seemed a sin 
for me to sleep, and she lying in so much pain—so 
sick. When at last, long after midnight, I began to 
dream, it was of her; yet of her in health, leading me 
by the hand through an endless mead of flowers and 
shrubs, and lofty trees. 


travellers’ entertainment. 


183 


I did not go to school the next daj, nor the next.— 
The third day she died. My mother was with her 
when she died. They would not let me go, though 
I entreated with tears. It was well perhaps, they 
did not. My memory of her now, is as of a sweet 
vision that beams awhile, passing back to heaven. 

When my mother returned from composing the 
remains of the little sufferer, I asked her to tell me 
how she died and what she said. With much inter¬ 
ruption from tears and sobs, she told me, that a few 
minutes before her death, she revived from the stu¬ 
por into which she had fallen, and called her father 
and her mother to her side, and kissed them saying, 
“We will meet in heaven, dear father and mother; 
good bye.” “Then she beckoned her sisters, one 
after another,” continued my mother, “and they 
came, and she kissed them, begging them not to weep 
so, telling them she was happy, and would be a great 
deal happier soon. Her brother was kneeling by 
her. Oh, it was hard for him! Strong man as he 
is, he wept, and groaned, as though she were his last 
earthly friend. She told him to call me. I went to 
her. I bent over her, and smoothed her hair away 
from her forehead and kissed it. ‘ Thou art a good 


184 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


'VYoman/ she said; ‘I love thee. Goodbye!’ I was 
going away. I could not bear to see the little angel 
die. She clung to my hand, and asked me—‘Is 
Ahasuerus here ?’ I told her no. ‘ Then tell him,’ 
she said,—her voice was very faint; she was .almost 
gone,—‘ tell him not to mourn for me. I am going 
to heaven, where I shall be always happy. I shall 
think of him. Give him my little Bible. Tell him 
to keep it. Don’t let him mourn for me.’ This was 
all I heard her say, my son. It is hard, I know,” she 
continued, seeing me so overwhelmed with grief. 
“ She was very dear to us all.” Tlie great Searcher 
of hearts, only knows the agony of that hour to me. 
I cried until I had no more tears to shed, walkinoj 
about, at rest nowhere. It was cruel, indeed, and 
hard to bear. I went to my sister’s room, and with 
her I talked over all I could remember of Seraph. 
It gave me great relief. Yet it was late in the night 
before I could be persuaded to go to my rest. When 
at last I did, my grief would not let me sleep. I 
felt as one in a strange place. I was I The world had 
changed to me. It would never be the same to mo 
again. 

Circumstances compelled it, and they buried her 


travellers’ entertainment. 185 

the day following her death. I attended her funeral. 
But I did not look into the coffin. ITo one looked 
into it. When the ceremony of burial was over, and 
the throng had dispersed, I lingered, seating myself 
beneath a tree, a little apart from the grave, and feel¬ 
ing as though I could never leave the sacred spot. I 
sat a long time there, looking through my tears upon 
the grave so precious, recalling the thousand, thousand 
things that had a voice of her, that brought her 
beaming smile. Did her spirit linger, too, around 
that grave, soothing my sad heart with its new breath, 
and giving vigor to my memory ? I had a grateful 
sense that it was so; and a sweet, tender melancholy, 
like that which sad, distant music gives, stole over me. 
I ceased to weep. My vision became clear, and I 
looked up through an opening in the trees, far up, 
deep into the soft, pure sky. There is her home, I 
thought. There she will hover, looking down upon 
me. Tliere I shall go with her, when I die. 

At last the cold night dews and the approaching 
darkness admonished * me of the necessity of seeking 
my home ; and with a slow, reluctant step I left the 
place. As I was going out, I met my father coming 
for me. He did not chide me; but took my hand in 
his tenderly, as was not his manner, and we walked 


186 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


home in silence beneath the gathering shadows of the 
silent night. 

Grief may be very poignant, and deep, in early 
life; but it does not last. We are climbing the hill. 
The prospect is widening. Hope, too, is mounting; 
and the aerial view beams ever more brightly, 
becomes ever more vast and alluring. We overlook 
the graves of those who go aside, journeying no 
more with us,—they are lost in the swelling, gorgeous 
scene. We cannot stop, if we ’would, to hear the 
voice of the pine, or bedew the cypress. It is true, a 
great bereavement will make an era in opening life, 
will change the path from what it would have been. 
Still we must go onward, ever onward, on our way. 
This was to a great extent true of me. At first I went 
often to Seraph’s grave, taking with me the little 
Bible—her last bequest. Every day I used to go. 
Then every other day. Finally but once a week. 
And when the winter snows came, their whiteness 
lay unsullied around that grave—no, there was one 
track. I saw it as I was passing once: a woman’s 
track. I stopped to look at it; but the place appeared 
bleak and desolate ; I did not enter. “ When spring 
comes,” said I to myself, promisingly, and passed 
on. So soon had it become a pious duty merely. 


travellers’ entertainment. 187 

Spring came; but with it came other thoughts— 
new, and new feelings, new objects of interest. One 
afternoon in the latter part of April, as I was hoeing 
in the flower-garden, in front of the house, a middle- 
aged man, carrying a large portmanteau, came up to 
the gate, and asked if Ahasuerus was at home. Since 
Seraph’s death, my sister Cynthia had persisted in 
calling me by my proper name, and I had got the 
hang of it pretty well. For the moment forgetting 
that Ahasuerus was likewise my father’s name, I 
advanced, hoe in hand, very confidently, and told 
him yes, that was my name. “Well, you’ve met 
with a great loss of years,” he responded, “ that’s a 
fact, since I saw you. I’d like to partake of your 
elixir, myself. By the by, boy, it’s your father I 
want to see; Ahasuerus Munn, senior.” Though 
mortified at my blunder, yet such was his manner 
—so full—overflowing with heartiness and the most 
sunny good-nature, that I suffered no self-deprecia¬ 
tion ; and I informed him, in a very civil way, that 
my father was at work in an adjoining field. 
“ Indeed! Industrious as ever. "Why, the man will 
be rich one of these days, I’m afraid,” he said, com¬ 
ing through the gate, and looking around admiringly. 
The open front-door caught his eye. “Well, I sup- 


188 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


pose it’s no difference. Cjntliia, and Delia, and the 
good, strong-minded Catherine—mother of ns all, I 
might say,—they’re at home, not ?” 

“ Delia is married, and gone away, this spring’s a 
year,” I replied, answering his question, and giving 
him the fact as something that would interest him, I 
thought, from his manner. And it seemed to, much. 
“ Married!” he broke out in great astonishment. 
“ Delia married ? Boy, I’ll have you beheaded for 
making false report. You really say, on the oath of 
an honest boy—which I confess you resemble—that 
Delia Munn, my little knee-high pet, is married, and 
gone off—this spring’s a year. Well, now; that 
beats Croton oil. I had no idea time was passing so 
fast. And I never Heard of it either. That’s 
strange. Yet’s a long while, I know. By the by, 
this puts me in the way of thinking there was a little 
squalling brat, nibbling silver tea-spoons in the cra¬ 
dle, and laughing at the looming spectacle of feet, to 
the ownership of which he did not see his title clear. 
A lusty brat he was—only son he was, too,—heir 
apparent. Are you he ?” 

I replied that I supposed I was. 

“ And has it come to this he mused, surveying 


travellers’ entertainment. 189 

me from head to foot, and resting his hand upon my 
shoulder. “My boy, you and I must be better 
acquainted. Don’t you remember me? Lord, no. 
That was a foolish question. Haven’t you ever heard 
your father or mother—mother, most likely—men¬ 
tion the name of Joshua ? That’s”- 

At this moment some one appeared at the front 
door. It was my mother. “ Um!” she exclaimed— 
a favorite expression of surprise with her, and the 
nearest approach to a by-word I ever heard her utter 
—“ Joshua!” 

“ Catherine, as I live ! The never-to-be-forgotten 
Catherine, how do you do ?” The next moment he 
had hold of her hand, and a cordial greeting ensued. 
“ Grown a little old in the mean time; I hope not 
cold?” Her bearing did not seem to indicate it. 
“ And Cynthia, too—dear child ! How you bloom!” 
Cynthia held his other hand. “I loved you once, you 
chick, and used to kiss you. You’re only a chickm, 

now, and I see no objection”-Smack! “ Ay, it’s 

over with. You needn’t blush so. Take thought on 
my grey hairs. Indeed, how have you all done in 
tlie long interval ? Well, I see, Delia is married, they 
say. By the everlasting hills, I was surprised. I could 



190 


GRKEN MOUNTAIN 


not have been more so if the Man in the Moon had 
accosted me.” There was a pause in which all three 
seemed to be thinking seriously about something. 
“Thou art well, I see, friend Joshua,” said my 
mother, returning to the subject. “ Always well, 
Catherine,” he responded, having the appearance 
also of returning; “ haven’t been sick an hour in the 
last five years.” 

“ I’m glad to hear thee say so,” said my mother. 
“We have to thank a beneficent Providence on that 
account,' ourselves. But come in. Supper will be 
ready soon. Deacon, call thy father.” Upon this 
they went in, and I went to discharge my behest. 

With a little of the hypocritical, as I had begun to 
be mischievously inclined sometimes, I merely called 
my father to supper; and w^alking along with him 
into the house, enjoyed his surprise exceedingly. 
“After five years’ interval, how do I find you?” 
inquired Joshua, rising. My father responded cor¬ 
dially, exhibiting more emotion than I had ever seen 
in him before. They directly fell into a very anima¬ 
ted conversation, Joshua doing the principal part of 
the talking, expressing both his thoughts and recol¬ 
lections and my father’s to a great extent. I listened 


travellers’ entertaenment. 


191 


until I began to lose interest in what they were say¬ 
ing ; and then I gave way to the speculation which 
had infested my mind ever since he first addressed 
me, namely, as to who he was. He was an old 
acquaintance of the family: that was evident. He 
was a doctor,—so I had gathered from the conversa¬ 
tion between him and my father. From Harrisburg, 
I had gathered from the same source. I wanted to 
know more about him. Singular old man ! I loved 
him. I could not help it. They all loved him. I 
could see that plainly. I called Cynthia aside and 
she satisfied me. He was an old school-mate of my 
father’s and mother’s. They had been to school 
many a year together. In his youth, Joshua had 
studied medicine, and had followed his profession 

very successfully in C- (our county-town) and 

vicinity. Before she could remember, he had gone to 
Harrisburg to live. ‘He had been to our house once 
since: this she could remember. And she had seen 
him five years before, when she and father and 
mother were in Harrisburg. I could remember when 
they went. ‘‘ He is a bachelor,” concluded my sis¬ 
ter, “ and isn’t he a nice man ?” 

“ I like him,” said L 



192 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


“ So do I,” she said. He’s the best man in the 
world.” 

Armed with these facts, I returned, and we all sat 
down to supper. The conversation shot off in 
various directions, without coming hack to any given 
point, wandering very desultorily, touching upon one 
thing and another, at last hitting me. see that 
said baby—pride of a mother’s heart^has grown 
monstrously,” remarked Joshua, looking apparently 
awestricken at me. My mother assented modestly, 
and I blushed. “ Let’s see, he’s fourteen, according 
to my reckoning, not ?” 

‘VThe fifth of next month,” answered my mother 
promptly. 

‘‘Fourteen. Long years to him, I have no doubt, 
longer than to the rest of us. Deacon, I observe you 
call him. Do you deserve the name, my boy? 
I know a very worthy deacon in Harrisburg. 
Deacon,”—I was blushing deeply, and they were all 
smiling—“ you ought not to be ashamed of your 
name.” The conversation was painful to me, and he 
knew it; so he changed it. 

The supper, and afterwards the evening, passed off 
very pleasantly, and we retired to sleep, Joshua 


travellers’ entertainment. 198 

bearing bis huge portmanteau with him—‘‘Kot for 

«» 

fear of robbery,” he observed, “ but for fear I shall 
want to rob it myself.” 

I was just about dropping into slumber, when a 
sound like vocal music from Joshua’s room, which 
was adjoining mine, jerked me broad awake. Music 
was a thing comparatively unknown in our parts, 
particularly in our house, and it startled me. I 
listened. Joshua was evidently in great anxiety 
wrestling with the pitch. Presently he captured it 
and started off with an eminently successful pace as 
it regarded sound, rising majestically into the laby¬ 
rinth. Directly his pitch was gone. He did not 
seem at first aware of it. When he was, he stopped. 
After a short skirmish on the spot, he went on again, 
finishing with another piece altogether, whose end 
was so much too low for his voice that the last three 
or four notes put me in mind of trying to duck a cat. 
I was amused. Though unversed in the science of 
music, I had some sort of an idea what it should be. 
I have by nature good ear; and through the 
medium of a small Methodist congregation which 
met for worship in our town, and which I sometimes 
out of curiosity had mingled with, had gained a little 
9 


194 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


incidental cultivation. I perceived that Joshua’s 
effort was a laughable failure, but he did not. Far 
from it. He seemed to draw inspiration from his 
imaginary success, and glowingly tramped through 
one piece after another for a half an hour or more, 
whistling through the heights which his voice could 
not reach, and coming to an end only by reason of 
the interruption of a violent cough, which he could 
not surmount, nor disguise. 

The next morning at breakfast, my father, in a 
rallying way, asked him how he slept. He took the 
point, and replied, with a slight dash of embarrass¬ 
ment at first, “Well, quite well. Better than the 
rest, maybe, eh? I declare I didn’t think of your 
private sentiments last night. I did get warm— 
unusually so. But there is a power in those old 
masters, by their manes! Ahasuerus, if I had fol¬ 
lowed music as a profession, I believe I might have 
done something. All my voice needs is careful 
training. But that, you know, a man of my calling 
can’t do very well. I understand the science per¬ 
fectly. I wish I could jot down some of my concep¬ 
tions, and had a voice to sing them, Td show these 
squalling, caterwauling popular vocalists how the 


travellers’ ENTERTAINIVIENT. 195 

thing should be done. I never heard any music yet 
that sounded to me like music—except perhaps in 
dreams.—By the way, that brings up the dream I 
had last night. You must hear it. I dreamt that 
Mozart came to me, and sang so vehemently, and 
with such exalted inspiration, that the notes took 
material shapes and fell out of his mouth upon the 
ground. I picked them up, and they gave out, each 
according to its size, the most exquisite tones imagin¬ 
able. I awoke trying to get the key note into my 
ear. Mozart had told me if I could get the key note 
in, he would repeat his song. Quite a dream wasn’t 
it? However, I know your constitutional objections 
to the subject.” 

“ By no means. Go on Joshua,” my mother put 
in. Sing,'and talk about it all thou pleasest. We 
are commanded to bear with one another’s infirmi¬ 
ties,” she concluded, smiling. 

“Yes, yes, I know. But never mind, my tale is 
told. Let us dismiss the subject.” 

During the forenoon and a part of the afternoon, 
being engaged at my appointed task, I did not see 
Joshua. Towards night, as I was sitting on the gate¬ 
post, taking boy-fashioned repose from my labor, 


196 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN 


Joshua hailed me from the front door, asking me if I 
wished to walk. Eagerly assenting, I joined him and 
my father, and we strolled off, away down across the 
old meadow towards an ancient forest, bounding its 
opposite edge. The sun was about two hours high, 
shining peacefully, and with a mellow light, upon the 
silent, majestic trees, all along the side we were 
approaching, filling the fresh foliage, as it were, with 
living light, and imparting a most delightful sense of 
repose to the soul. 

As we walked leisurely on, looking around at 
different objects of attraction,—now each for himself, 
—now all together, looking in silence, except a brief 
remark or ejaculation now and then, Joshua had a 
train of thought suggested to him, apparently by the 
general scene. I remember the theme. 

“Could we always see the world under such a 
light,” thought he aloud, “ I would be very much 
better contented in it. Could we always feel within 
ourselves such balmy influence shed abroad, see it 
and feel it, how much more bearable were human 
life ! I have watched men considerably one time and 
another, and I have always found them at this hour, 
when the heavens were open and the earth respon- 


travellers’ entertainment. 197 

sire, in better mood, more susceptible to the appeals 
of distress, more open to the reception of sound 
thought, more suggestive of it. Is it not so ?” 

“ Yes, I believe it is,” replied my father, endea¬ 
voring to express in his countenance the philosophi¬ 
cal depth which his words did not convey. 

“I have found genius beginning its day of action 
at this hour, shadowing forth great things that were 
to live in the hearts of men for ever,” continued 
Joshua in general. “The criminal, it is said, lays 
aside his bloody machinations, feeling the sweets of 
remembered purity at such an hour, beneath such a 
scene. Then—it is said—the breath of ripened beauty 
is balmiest, her words more of the tone of heaven. 
Hope is most quiet, memory most active, devotion 
nearest to its God. Indeed mankind is better. It is 
a blessed hour. Poets have sung about it, lovers 
have loved it, dying saints have thanked God for it; 
and I thank God for it, thank my stars for it. Aha- 
suerus!” 

Ahasuerus, my father, had all the time looked 
very profound; starting up, he answered— 

“ What?” 

“I’m thinking,” said Joshua at the top of a long 


198 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


breath, that we’ve got to climb this fence.” Sure 
enough, we were right upon the meadow fence—a 
nine-railed barrier. But we were soon over it, there 
being a little emulation in the act, and entered with a 
slower pace the grand old wood. Directly, Joshua 
remarked, “ There’s a tree that puts me in mind of a 
laughable thing that happened when I was a student, 
a great many years ago. Old Doctor Schaum,—you 
didn’t know him, I guess.”—My father had seen him 
once or twice.—‘‘ Indeed ! You know liis make then. 
He weighed three hundred and ten pounds avoirdupois, 
with his boots and cane,—plump that before dinner. 
I never could induce him to be weighed after dinner; 
for with all his grossness he had a delicacy about 
revealing the extent of his libations and sacrifices to 
the god, whose diadem is the ivaistband. He was 
very indolent in body; and he cherished his indo¬ 
lence with a sort of pride. This pride took for its 
object one significant fact of which he frequently 
boasted—namely, that he had never been forced by 
any earthly circumstance out of a waUt since laying 
aside his short clothes; and he often in connection 
with this boast advanced the wish to be able to die 
with the consciousness, that the pace most consistent 


travellers’ entertainment. 199 

with human dignity had never been violated by him, 
since arriving at years of discretion.. This eccen¬ 
tricity, so often exhibited, and with snch seriousness, 
came to be, in the eyes of his friends and acquaint¬ 
ances, a fixed stratum in his character. It was when 
I was studying with him that the afiair happened 
which I’m going to tell you about. It had been 
• long brewing,, but could not come to bead. At last a 
fellow-student—a splendid chap—since dead, poor 
fellow !—brought it about. Without communicating 
liis design, he persuaded me to act a part. He said 
he wanted me to take a loaded rifie, and go to a cer¬ 
tain point,—-which he described exactly,—at a certain 
hour on a day mentioned, and post myself, watching 
cautiously. The day came. Oblivious of what was in 
the wind, I took the rifie, which was carefully loaded, 
and proceeded to the place. My post was at the 
corner of a large field, or square inclosed, in the 
suburbs of the town, not far from the doctor’s house. 
On a diagonal line from where I stood, about fifty 
yards off, was a large tree, the only one in the field. 
On casting about to discover the object of my being 
there, I saw an animal, which from a mere glance, I 
took to be an ox, grazing quietly near the corner, first 


200 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN 


to the left from where I was. I had been standing 
there nearly an hour, and was beginning to get impa¬ 
tient, when the creaking of a large gate away over 
nearly to the opposite corner, attracted my attention. 
Looking sharply in that direction, I discovered that 
it was the old doctor entering the inclosur'e. Ho 
was coming from the direction of his house, and was 
crossing the field, evidently to save distance, as in his 
pedestrian tours he was always up to. Solemnly 
and steadily, he came on straight towards me. Busied 
with concocting an excuse, which I knew I should 
have to furnish him for being there, I did not pay 
further attention to him, until I heard a low, ominous 
bellowing. Looking up, I saw the supposed ox, paw¬ 
ing the ground, and shaking his head fiercely at the 
doctor, who, becoming suddenly aware of his situa¬ 
tion,—^being as he was, though considerably past the 
middle of the field, yet some distance from the cor¬ 
ner,—quickened his pace perceptibly. I saw through 
the plot at a glance. Ha! ha! Go it guns! Now, 
old man—now for a run. Ay, my old doctor ;—^but 
no, he wouldn’t run ; no earthly circumstance should 
force him out of the cherished pace. Yet when 
he saw the rampant animal start, and with tremend* 


TBAVELLEES’ ENTERTAINMENT. 201 

OTIS bounds, annihilate the distance between them, 
I believe he would have run, had he not at about the 
same moment seen me, and also discerned, by my con¬ 
tortions, the state of my mind. lie was about sixty 
yards from the tree, which was his nearest point of 
safety, if it could be deemed anything more than a 
^miQtj-valve in his case. 

On came the fierce animal, shortening the protecting 
span of distance with amazing rapidity; and on came 
the glowing doctor, now in that doubtful province, 
between a walk and a run. But he would not run,— 
no sir; no earthly circumstance should bring him to 
that. He expressed this unequivocally. I could see 
it in the toes and heels of his boots, in the sweep 
of his cane, in the wrinkles of his pantaloons, in the 
set of his hat. “ But you’ll have to run,” said I 
aloud, with a dash of apprehension. My apprehen¬ 
sion deepened. I began to fear he would sacrifice his 
life to the eccentric notion. Accordingly I drew my 
rifle to my eye. He was near the tree.—^The dreadful 
bull—a bull, and no mistake, was within three bounds 
of him. There was a moment, I did not look at the 
doctor. When 1 did, he was behind the tree, the 
bull goring the roots on the opposite side. It was not 




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204 


OREEN MOUNTAIN 


in sight of the pond hard by. Joshua and my father 
were several yards ahead of me, and I, not feeling 
that I could be of any use, halted to look. In the 
middle of the pond was a boat upset, and a short 
distance from the shore was a greyheaded man swim- 
ming desperately, yet making but little progress, 
towards the boat. By the time Joshua and my 
father had reached the shore, the former had divested 
himself of his upper clothing, and without halting he 
leapt like a deer far out into the water, and swam 
for the boat. Just before he came to ii, the head of 
a boy arose swayingly above the surface near him. 
With a skillful movement Joshua fastened his hand 
in the boy’s hair, and wheeling, made for the shore. 
My father having in the mean time secured a rail 
from a neighboring fence, waded out, and with his 
assistance Joshua brought the insensible body upon 
the land. I was standing by when they brought it 
out, and recognized the features at once. It was old 
Abel’s son—only child. He had once been a crony 
of mine. Samuel was his name. He was the best 
arithmetic scholar in the school. While I was run 
ning this over in an excited manner, standing around 
in the way, Joshua and my father were trying to 


TKAVELLERS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 205 

bring him to life. Old Abel, having swam the whol% 
length of the pond, came to their assistance; and 
after half an hour or so, they succeeded in restoring 
animation to the boy. Upon which old Abel took 
him in his arms tenderly, and bore him away towards 
his home, and we retraced our steps. As we were 
walking through the wood on our way home, Joshua 
remarked. “I wish I hadn’t put a hand into that 
affair.” 

“ Why ?” said I, seeing my father paid no atten¬ 
tion to the remark. 

Oh, I know the boy,” he replied. 

I remembered Sam had been for a few months past 
in Harrisburg, employed there as clerk in a dry 
goods store. I was about asking further explanation, 
when he resumed. “Deacon, I know you take it 
strange. But I don’t like to see such boys grow up. 
He’s of bad stock. And he’s coming into possession 
of his legacy of meanness. That woman bequeathed 
it to him, cursed him with it. He should have 
drowned, ay, he should have drowned for all me, if I 
had known who it was before I went into the water. 
1 would have left him on the shore there to die after 
we had him out but for a certain weakness I have— 


206 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


force of habit. He should die, die young. The 
world don’t need him. It didn’t need—Oh, bitter¬ 
ness! Gall! gall!” His voice was clogged with 
emotion, and crossing his arms behind him he looked 
sorrowfully upon the ground. 

‘‘ Thee should be charitable,” calmly enjoined my 
father. • 

Between surprise and conjecture I was considera¬ 
bly excited, and I listened eagerly for Joshua’s reply. 
But he made none. Heither did my father make 
any more remarks. They were both silent the rest 
of the way; and during the evening Joshua was 
sober, saying but little, and that reluctantly. What 
could it be that so disturbed him? It was long 
before I knew anything about it; and when I did, I 
only wondered he had not been more bitter—more 
cast down. 

In the morning Joshua was himself again, only 
showing that he remembered the last night’s adven¬ 
ture by avoiding allusion to it. Throughout the day, 
except at meals, I did not see him. During the even¬ 
ing he talked of music, discoursing two or three 
hours, elaborating a system which he intended to 
present to the world some day or other, he said. He 


travellers’ entertainment. 207 

was very tedious, I remember. If I had not sur¬ 
mised it before, I saw then plainly that with all his 
good qualities, and clearness of understanding, one 
thing was gone from him, if it ever made a part of 
him, namely, a power to perceive that the sphere of 
music was a forbidden realm to him; and that 
through fancying—^yea, believing—it was not, he was 
making himself a laughing-stock, and oftentimes an 
incubus, where he might be winning love and com¬ 
manding respect. 

The baneful star reigned that night, until some time 
after he went to his room, and he again courted the 
“power of those old masters,” getting a fit of cough¬ 
ing, and going to sleep, finally. 

This monomania was the only unpleasant thing 
about him. I loved him more and more, the longer 
he stayed. He grew quite familiar with me, talking 
to me of subjects almost too abstruse for my untutored 
understanding, yet talking in so plain a way, bringing 
the thing out always so clearly, and was always so 
pleasant and patient with my foolish, at-random sug¬ 
gestions, unfledged imaginings, and disjointed analo¬ 
gies, that I loved him when most mortified, and could 
have sat, it seemed to me, for ever in conversation with 
him—except when music was his theme. 


208 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN 


I would like to relate some more of the many 
things which I remember of him in connection with 
this visit, but I must hurry on to matters that will 
interest you more than these. 

He stayed with us about three weeks. The hour 
of his departure was a sad one to me—sad to us all. 
It was a quiet, sunny morning, early. We stood at 
the gate, Joshua outside, his portmanteau slung upon 
his arm. Everything was so quiet. A dreamy sense, 
a reverie, rested upon us all—seemed to* rest upon 
every living thing around us. We stood there, loth 
to say “ good-by!” We were getting quite sorrowful. 
Something must be said, and Joshua said it beam¬ 
ingly, breaking the charm. “ My very dear friends, 
I don’t like such antitheses. This isn’t the way you 
looked when I came here. You must bear in mind 
that me ye have not always, neither can. I am a 
bird of passage—of the species of vulture it is true. 
I am, too, superannuated. It is said, ‘Time and tide 
wait for no man.’ I do not ask them to tarry; but 
take Time by the forelock and lead him on his way 
and I laugh at the slothful tide. What’s the use. 
This going back foremost into the Kingdom, I hold 
to be a shameful reversing of manly energies. When 
I go, I goeth, mv friends; when I come, it is the 


iKAVELLEKS^ ENTERTAINMENT. 


209 


same. No wind is more free, never was. When \ 
love, I love. You know that, my good Catherine, 
you know that, Ahasuerus. And when I hate, I hate. 
You know that, too. I love you all. God knows my 
heart, I do. Catherine, good-by!”—He took her 
hand.—‘‘ You were kind to me once. May you shine 
the brighter in Heaven for it! Brave Ahasuerus, 
you are growing grey in the battle. Time is out¬ 
flanking you. But be stout to the end. Good-by! 
That was an honest tear, Ahasuerus. Do you remem¬ 
ber when you saw me weep ? There was a desert 
around me then. It drank all the tears of my life,— 
a bitter yielding up, a greedy draught! Do not think 
me heartless. Cynthia, sweet girl, may you be blest. 
You deserve it. Love him,—am serious now,—^love 
him, but not with all your heart. Good-by! Dea¬ 
con,” he concluded, turning to me, “you’re too 
young for such a strain. Be a good boy. Tliink 
sometimes of her who lies in that grove yonder. It 
will not hurt you any. I must hurry. Well, come 
and see me. I think now my business is so arranged 
that I can visit you oftener. .1 must. You will hear 
from me before long. Write.” It was the last word, 
spoken as he hurried away. 

My heart was heavy all that day. There was a 


210 GKEEN MOUNTAIN 

dismalness about the house, about the barn, in the 
field, the old forest;—upon everything in fact, associ¬ 
ated with Joshua, rested an invisible shadow, which I 
felt. Nobody said anything at dinner, nor at supper, 
nor in the evening. Everything was quiet, very 
quiet. Towards bed-time, as I sat musing, generally 
impressed with Joshua in the various phases pre¬ 
sented by my memory, my mind centered all at once 
upon some expressions in his valedictory of the morn¬ 
ing. “ Do you remember when you saw me weep ? 
There was a desert around me then And what he 
said to my mother. “ You were kind to me once.” 
They were mysterious expressions to me. Yet my 
father and mother understood them. They seemed 
to shed tears more at them than at his going away. 
His remarks after saving the drowning boy, too:— 
they all referred to some passage of his life-history 
that had a deep and mournful interest. So much I 
conjectured; but could go no further. I wanted to 
know more. My parents could tell me. I would 
ask them. 

“Father,” said I, “what did Joshua mean this 
morning when he talked about thy knowing when he 
wept ?” 

My father made no reply ; but in a minute or two 


TRAVELLEKS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 211 

my mother said, looking solemnly at me. “ My son, 
thy father must not teL thee. Cynthia does not 
know, and thou must not.” I knew it would be vain 
to push the matter, so I dropped it, reverting to his 
remarks again. There was something he had said 
which I could not at first recall. I could remember 
that it touched me deeply when spoken. But the 
expression. I strove to recall it for some time in 
vain. “ Think of her who lies in that grove yonder!” 
That was it. My parents had told him of my bereave¬ 
ment, and his good heart had felt for me; and from 
that remark I saw that he had thought of me and her 
together, perhaps^—it was but a dim conjecture then, 
which hardly took the form of thought—not wholly 
separate from his own youthful experience. 

When I went to my room, which I did early, 
everybody and everything appeared so gloomy—I 
sought out the little casket in my trunk which con¬ 
tained the dear gift—the pocket-Bible that had once 
been Seraph’s. I opened the precious volume, and 
read for the thousandth time the fondly remembered 
name. It had been written with a pencil, and was 
almost erased; still I could trace the lines in all their 
delicate windings; and, as was my custom, I traced 


212 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


them then ; and they became, as they had always, a 
mirror held to the past—the sunny past. Peculiarly 
distinct were the oft-recalled impressions that night. 
With peculiar force they touched me. A sweet 
reverie, almost like a dream, came upon me; and for 
a long time I sat, or rather knelt there, before my 
trunk, holding the little volume, and looked into the 
magic mirror. L wandered—stopping here and there 
—^back into the far perspective, even to the rivulet in 
the old meadow, and heard again its prophesy. But 
there was now something happy in the memory of its 
voice,—had felt it before :—perhaps it was not the 
rivulet’s voice alone:—it was something of Immor¬ 
tality. My soul caught the strain. Yibrating, it 
kindled my imagination, and a vision new and 
strange opened upon me. It was a vision of the 
future—of the distant future. It was very enraptur¬ 
ing, but brief, coming and fading like a blinding 
flash. Yet it turned the current of my thoughts. I 
closed the little book and put it away, and went to 
bed, wishing for that hour to come which would 
bring me to Seraph, and her to me, to be hai)py 
for ever, both of us. 

The next day was the Sabbath. I attended at the 


TEAVELLERS' ENTERTAINMENT. 213 

old place of worship with my parents. It was an 
unassuming, antiquated building, in its dotage, yet 
out of deference—I know no other reason—occupied 
still. It stood at a four-corners, nearly a mile from 
the village, and something over half that distance 
from our house. A peaceful location it was, like the 
congregation of quiet-loving spirits that had for more 
than half a century met there from time to time to 
do liomage to their God. A pleasant grove sur¬ 
rounded the building, as if protecting it. In the 
grove were some pines — stalwart, ever holding 
legendary converse with the winds. The grave-yard 
was there in that grove, occupying the corner 
opposite the sanctified structm-e. How natural, how 
beautiful the sentiment of our fathers, that the dead 
must sleep where the living meet to worship ! 

After worship I went into the grave-yard. As I 
stood by the mound so hallowed, I felt to reproach 
myself quite bitterly that I had not been there 
oftener of late. Only the fourth time since spring 
had opened, and it was almost June. Yet the place 
had an enchantment about it. I felt it when I was 
there. Why did I not come oftener ? I had not for¬ 
gotten Seraph—oh, my heart! no. Hew objects had 


214 : 


GREEN MOUNl’AIN 


come to divert me. Upon the great Stream of Time 
I was being borne away. Yet it was not altogether 
these. I knew it then. There was a voice whisper¬ 
ing to my secret soul—never*more distinctly than on 
that serene Sabbath afternoon, while I stood looking 
upon the silent grave—that she, dear Seraph, was 
with me always, living, watching, communing with 
me. Her body was of earth—dust, her spirit a 
sentient being—of heaven. I lingered an hour or 
so, and then walked away homeward lightsomely. 
There was a change within me. I perceived it, yet 
did not remark it. I should no more look back, as 
for the last few months I had. Forward I saw— 
dimly, a glimpse—I saw a life opening before me. 
A life of realities, pleasant they seemed to me then, 
gorgeous realities. Then a going down into the 
Yalley of Shadows, and a glorious uprising for ever¬ 
more ! I saw, and was happy. AYho showed it 
me ? Who taught my soul to believe it ? I was 
what the world terms visionary then, though I had 
scarcely learned to think. I am so now, having 
learned. These things were not the offspring of my 
unaided mind. Seraph. She lives. 

In a few days the general gloom which Joshua’s 


TIIAVELLERS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 


215 


departure had brought down, passed off, and I 
resumed the routine of duties, manual and other, with 
cheerfulness and abundant hope. The summer went 
by genially, bringing, among its other natural pro¬ 
ductions, a long letter from Harrisburg, signed with 
a prodigious flourish, and a stray quirk or two, by 
way of ornament—“ Joshua Hoyles.’’ It was a very 
amusing and interesting letter to all of us ; and was 
read and re-read until, through fear of its total de¬ 
struction, my mother locked it up in the bureau 
drawer, and we, that is Cynthia and I, gradually for¬ 
got it. 

The autumn came, at once gay and mournful, as 
death should be. It was late in that season. Winter 
was showing itself on the mountains, impatient to 
begin its work in the silent valleys. It was a gloomy 
day. There were thick clouds in place of the sky, 
and it was cold. I had been husking corn in the 
field all day. As I came in from my work I was 
met at the door by Cynthia, who was so flushed and 
smiling that I knew she had something to tell me. 
“ Who do you think has got home ?” she asked, 
betraying by her form of expression what she evi¬ 
dently wished to conceal. I guessed right the first 


216 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


time, greatly to her surprise. ‘‘ Fanny Cline,” said 
I; and I want to see her.” I wanted to see her 
because she was Seraph’s sister. She had been next 
in the series older than Seraph, and was now the 
youngest of the family. In times past I had been 
acquainted with her, yet never familiarly. She was 
about a year older than I, and while Seraph lived 
she had seemed so much older, that I hardly ever 
thought of her, except as an older sister, like Cyn¬ 
thia. The youngest now. There were two other 
sisters, considerably older, both married; and a bach¬ 
elor brother, the eldest of the children ; the father 
and mother, exemplary Friends and citizens, middle- 
aged, grey, weather-beaten, hardy people, and withal 
intelligent: such was the family of Clines. 

Fanny, since Seraph’s death, had been absent, stay¬ 
ing with the maiden aunt, and was just returned, 
much increased in stature, and in beauty, too. So 
Cynthia said, as we walked in together. I found it 
true. I had used to think she was handsome, her 
cheeks were so red, and her lips; her eyes so spark¬ 
ling ; her long, silken hair, which hung and waved in 
such luxuriant ringletsand more than all, the imper¬ 
turbable cheerfulness of her disposition. Kow she 


travellers’ entertainment. 217 

appeared beautiful, decidedly so. She still wore 
her hair loose. It was very luxuriant, of a dark 
auburn. Her eyes were dark and somewhat large, 
at once tender and sparkling as of yore—^yet more 
tender. Her mouth was most exquisitely chiselled, 
and around it reposed, looking sweetest in repose, a 
peculiar expression which gave an exhaustless charm 
to her countenance. So I found her sitting in Cyn¬ 
thia’s room, glowing with health—indeed the picture 
of it, it appeared to me. Perhaps it was not all that 
which made her so ruddy. I was glad to see her, 
because she was Seraph’s sister; and in the excess of 
my friendship I kissed her. She was going to resist 
me; but I think she divined my sentiment, and 
received the offering approvingly. After the first 
ebullition, I was very calm, much calmer than she 
was. "We talked together of the changes that had 
taken place since her going away, gravely, like older 
people. Then we talked of the more distant past; 
and spoke with subdued voices of the dear one. She 
wept, but I did not. She was very sad, and I strove 
to comfort her in the same manner as I had been 
comforted. I spun my efforts to considerable length, 
finding it very pleasant to talk to her,—so pleasant 
10 


218 


GKEEN MOTJUTAIH 


that I departed from the main object several times, 
becoming quite personal, tojing with her soft hair—• 
we were on a settee, side by side—and wadding up 
her handkerchief, much to her inconvenience. 
Finally she became cheerful, and we familiarly 
talked and laughed, mainly about the old clothes 1 
had on, which began to embarrass me a little. Before 
that theme was entirely exhausted, the evening was 
up. I escorted Fanny home, feeling more and more 
foolish because of my apparel, and when I pai’ted 
from her, before saying “ good night,” I had to offer 
a serious apology for my exterior. 

The next day, at my work, I had a new theme of 
reflection. Yet I did not think so much as I felt on 
the subject. So beautiful she was. I believe every 
dozenth pulsation of my heart all that day, brought 
her image in some phase or other before me. Physi¬ 
cal deformities of mine—and I was astonished as 
well as pained to find so many—^became disagreeably 
prominent. It was a very long day, too : I seemed to 
have lived a week in it. Yet I was not in love, only 
beginning to be; quite earnestly, however, it must 
be confessed. 

Fanny, Fanny, Fanny. I wrote it in the snow. I 


TEAVELLERS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 


219 


wrote it on my slate. I wrote it very elaborately on 
an enamelled card, with ornamental touches in red 
ink—wrote the name in full, Fanny Cline. I showed 
the card to her when she next came to visit Cynthia, 
which was about a week after the interview described. 
It was about all I could do, I 'was so painfully embar¬ 
rassed in her presence. The sentiment had grown 
upon me amazingly during that week. She praised 
the chirography exhibited on the card, and with a 
very sweet smile, told me that if I would do my o'wn 
name in the same manner upon another card, she 
would keep it as a gift. 

The two interviews, that is, the first and this, 
diflTered principally in character in her doing the most 
of the talking, and my becoming an enchanted 
listener. I could do nothing but smile. I felt very 
loose and buoyant; and when I attempted to steady 
myself into something like a dignified mien—which I 
experienced a growing necessity of—it seemed as 
though I had no foundation, and it was like steadying, 
or trying to, a very rampant balloon. I smiled on 
still, not saying anything that I could bear to recall; 
and when she went away, I labored under the general 
impression that I had acted a very silly part. Some- 


220 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


thing must be done, I thought, or I should be for ever 
disgraced in her eyes. She would come again the 
next Sabbath evening, so she had told Cynthia. A 
petition was sent up, and to my surprise met with 
immediate attention, namely, to fit me out with a 
new suit of clothes, ostensibly for the purpose of 
appearing respectably at church—my then existing 
Sunday suit, it was urged, being inadequate to that 
end. Within four days I was fitted to my satisfaction. 
So much done. The card was written on next, very 
successfully. I was prepared. The Sabbath came— 
the evening. And Fanny came. When I thought 
she and Cynthia had been together a proper length 
of time, I went to her room, “ dressed to death,” and 
ushered myself into their presence. For a few 
minutes I succeeded in passing myself for a civil 
young gentleman in his teens, but the very first time 
Fanny looked into my face with that bewitching 
smile of hers, I relapsed helplessly into the old state, 
imbecile as ever. I brought forth the card, but her 
praises only sank me deeper. I reverted to my new 
suit. It did no good.—It was absolutely nothing, and 
worse, for I felt unworthy of the clothes. After a few 
minutes there was a reaction, and I felt better—only 


TEAVELLEKS’ ENTEETAINMENT. 221 

better. I knew I ought not to stay there and immo¬ 
late my dignity in that manner. But I could not get 
away. Besides the allurement to remain, I knew that 
if I should attempt to break loose, all that had gone 
before would be swallowed up in the enormous awk¬ 
wardness with which I should accomplish it. It was 
of no use. I was in the vortex, and as effectually 
lost as any poor seafaring wretch in the great mael¬ 
strom. I became patient and felt better still—quite 
refreshed, as. one feels after a storm in hot weather. I 
actually made two or three remarks just before 
starting home with her, that I felt in some degree 
proud of. 

When we parted that night, I dared to press her 
hand; warm and velvety it was, only these; there was 
no response. It was a desperate act of mine, and as 
I walked homeward, it occurred to me that possibly 
the rash venture had given her offence. The suspi¬ 
cion was anguishing, and I could not repel it. The 
only alleviation I had was the thought that the act 
was past recall, and I could only show by future con¬ 
duct how much I reprobated it. 

Tlie next day, Monday, I commenced going to 
school. I was getting to be quite a large boy—a 


222 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


young man, I thonglit—so I went this winter to the 
village-school, a select affair, where everything was 
very prim, and advanced, things and scholars bearing 
the stamp of the tutor, a sickly young elder, who, 
being unable to perform his sacerdotal duties, had 
taken to teaching. I disliked him at first. His pre¬ 
ciseness and dryness of manner sifted upon me 
suffocatingly, and I went home the first night regret¬ 
ting deeply that I had committed myself so much 
as to commence. 

But I did not dislike him so much the second day. 
The third not so much. And when it came Saturday 
night, I found myself looking forward to Monday 
again, with some pleasure. 

Sabbath evening, Fanny was at our house as usual. 
I had something to talk about that time, and as long 
as the fund lasted, I passed. But that was not long, 
and the first thing that visited me when I began to 
feel barren, was the remembrance of my foolish act 
in the dark, a week before. It crushed me for the 
instant quite fiat, but I was directly comforted with 
the reflection that her conduct did not show that she 
remembered it, and—strange vicissitude of feeling!—a 
desire to do it over again sprang up. I had the 


TEAVELLERS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 223 

escorting of her as usual. But it was very cold, and 
she kept her hands in her muff. Could I put mine 
in there too ? Then I had a suspicion that it was not 
the dangerous weather either that made her so jealous 
of those pretty hands, though they were tender. But 
I was attending a select school, in the village. There 
were other girls. Handsome ones. I did not feel, 
therefore, so dependent as formerly. In fact, this 
time I was myself offended—a little. What changes! 
—apparent. 

Notwithstanding, I thought of Fanny frequently 
that week, more towards the latter part, as the 
novelty of my new place was wearing away. 

Sunday night again I saw her. The same sorry, 
unsatisfactory figure again I cut, or rather mangled. 
I never should mend it, so it seemed. That night, 
for the first time, I became sensible of a melancholy, 
on account of my dismal relation to the adored 
Fanny—adored now. I was in love in earnest, 
though not yet quite fifteen. To be sure I have 
had impulses of passion since, to which that was but 
a small lambent flame; but then it was as serious as 
it has ever been. 

Sweet Fanny, I love thee. It was a secret thought, 


224 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


first-sighed in secret with a gush of rapture. Then I 
ventured it upon my slate, written half of it at a 
time, and rubbed out instantly. Then out in full, to 
be looked at. Directly it was down on a piece of 
paper. The paper was torn up and chewed. Then 
it was very carefully written on fine paper in red ink 
—symbolic—and some other words were added 
including my given name. Saturday afternoon it 
was done. Sunday evening, in great agitation, I 
secretly slipped it into Fanny’s muff as it lay on 
Cynthia’<s table. That night Cynthia went home 
with her. Why ? I had not been private enough. 
Ay, I was caught! But I couldn’t help it. And, in 
truth, I did not care. I’d not be ashamed of my feel¬ 
ings. Cynthia might laugh; but it wouldn’t make 
Fanny less sweet. Alas! it might lessen me in her 
eyes. The thought was bitter, like nettles, and stung 
like them too. But I was launched. Things must 
take their course. This was my conclusion, and I 
went to bed upon it. 

The week was long and fruitful of impracticable 
plans—I could not let things take their course— 
founded upon conditional circumstances. Plans as 
to my getting out of the scrape, or getting further 


travellers’ entertainment. 


225 


into it, or getting along with it. I was, or fancied I 
was, indifferent as to which. I call them impracti¬ 
cable; for when Saturday night came, not one 
remained, and I ingenuously opened my eyes on the 
Sabbath to receive my renewed anticipation of the 
evening in as blank, unfortified a state as ever. 

It grew dark very slowly that evening. The twi¬ 
light clung like a stain. The stars came out 
reluctantly. The clock was unaccountably lazy, yet 
kept pace with the time. The phenomena almost 
made me feel superstitious. The time went slower 
and slower, and by seven o’clock it seemed to have 
stopped altogether. I could hold on no longer. 

“ Why ”—1 checked myself, fearing to betray 
irritation, and passing my hand over my face the 
more to mask my feelings, added, ‘‘ How is Fanny 
to-day ? Hast thou seen her?” to Cynthia. 

“ Yes, I saw her this afternoon,” she replied, with¬ 
out looking directly at me. “She is well, very 
well.” 

I thought—indeed I was quite sure—saw a nest 
of suppressed wrinkles struggling around her eyes 
and mouth, and the next instant I was submerged as 
it were with a tepid wave. All along through the 
10* V 


226 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


daj^ and up to that moment, I had avoided thinking 
directly of the last Sunday evening’s circumstance. 
Now I could not help it. And worse, I could think 
of nothing else. Oh, the night! For a youngster not 
much acquainted with real troubles—^yet somewhat, 
too—I was very miserable. I had wounded the bird 
I would tenderly have caught, and she had flown. 
Until after midnight I lay wide awake in trial, 
striving to buckle on the panoply of indifference. I 
had at first some imaginary success. But there were 
two or three things that held out—among which my 
dignity. Chafed with the consciousness that a great 
fool had existed for the past month under my name, 
it would not yield, and in a state of total discomfiture 
I fell asleep. 

During the week that followed, I increased my 
endeavors, not only to induce indifference towards 
what I had done, but towards the prime cause. I 
addressed myself to study with assiduity; and, as 
opportunity occurred, sought to enlarge my acquain¬ 
tance among the young ladies of the school. In this 
latter I succeeded amazingly. I had had no idea I 
was so popular. I suppose there was something 
about me very pleasing to the other sex. At any 


TEAVELLEES’ ENTEETAINMENT. 227 

rate there seemed to be from the reception I met 
with at once. All smiles and laughter they were, 
sacrificing themselves entirely to please me. It was 
agreeable, that’s a fact, and diverted me—so far 
answering the purpose for which I had sought their 
society. With the social enjoyment thus afforded, 
and the new interest which my studies gave, 1 passed 
along very smoothly, getting through the next Sab¬ 
bath evening with only a few sage reflections, in 
which there was some satisfaction; for the fact of 
Fanny’s not being at our house confirmed me entirely 
in my supposition, which caused me to view the 
whole affair in the aspect of a necessary evil. I was 
quite philosophical for a youth—the more so, perhaps, 
for having just read a long letter from Joshua, which 
had, strangely enough, a good deal in it hearing 
pretty directly upon the question. Yet all the while 
I had a sense like being on thin ice over fathomless 
depths. 

But the ice grew thicker, and time went steadily 
on. For several weeks, perhaps two months, I did 
not see Fanny, except at divine woi’ship on the Sab¬ 
bath, and that was the same as not seeing her at all. 
A coi dentally—I had no reason to think otherwise then 


228 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


—one evening as I returned from school, I met her 
between our house and hers. She was humming a 
scrap of music in a very lively mood, and said “ good 
evening ” to me with great cheerfulness of manner, 
but went straight by me, though I halted, for I had it 
in my heart to say something more. As I stood look¬ 
ing at her receding form, which seemed to float 
rather than walk, the depths throbbed—^but the ice 
did not break. 

It was getting to be spring. Harrow-shaped flocks 
of wild-geese, and vast flocks of pigeons were flying to 
the northward. The snow had mostly disappeared, 
clinging in a dull icy form only in obscure hollows, 
and here and there along the northern side of stone 
fences. Black-birds were making vocal the swamps 
and lowlands, and early flowers were springing up in 
the woods. The select school was closed, and I was 
at home working on the farm. It was a warm, serene 
day—cloudless, and full of hope. I was in the fleld 
pretending to labor, yet preferring rest, which I was 
indulging in at the time of which I speak. I was 
sitting on the fence, basking in the sunshine, and 
musing upon the events of the past winter. 1 was 
sad, Much as I had disliked my teacher at first, I 


TRAVELLEES’ ENTERTAINMENT. 


229 


had come to love liim. He had been always kind to 
me, and now I was thinking of his kindness, of his 
misfortunes, and of the likelihood of my never seeing 
him again, as his health was very poor, and every¬ 
body said he would die soon. I was thinking of the 
hour of parting; how he ranged us in a semicircle, 
and shook hands with each, saying “good by and 
how the tears ran down his pale, hollow cheeks, as he 
went on in the painful ceremony, and how each one, 
when his or her turn was past, went away weeping. 
From these sorrowful recollections I was aroused by 
the sound of voices. 1 looked up, and saw Cynthia 
and Fanny approaching. They were coming leisurely 
across the field, right towards me. I thought they 
did not see me, and being afraid of becoming privy to 
their artless remarks, I leapt briskly off the fence and 
hawked sonorously. It was gratuitous. 

“ Lazy boy!” cried Cynthia playfully, “ sitting on 
the fence all day. I’ll tell father.” 

“ How do ye do, ladies ?” said I with a low bow. 

“ What ?” inquired Cynthia, catching her breath 
in the midst of a laugh. I repeated the performance, 
which, from my confusion, proved a bad imitation. 

“We are all well, except the family,” she res- 


230 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN 


ponded. Tlien they both laughed, Fanny blushing 
and looking down. I could see no point to the 
remark, yet I laughed as though I did, and so they 
came up to me, Fanny leaning on Cynthia’s arm, 
looking so fresh and beautiful! It was going—the 
ice. I cast a stern glance at her as an anchor. I felt 
justified in so doing. Why should she tempt me ?—■ 
the witch. For a moment—^the smallest fraction of 
an ordinary moment—^her eyes met mine. My soul I 
it was too late. The fountains of the great deep were 
broken up. 

“Well, brother, how dost thou like work?” asked 
my sister soberly. I was smiling on Fanny—all 
smile it seemed to me—and answered. “ Yery well.” 

“ Thou findest it rather hard I reckon,” remarked 
Fanny, her voice musically sweet. 

“ Oh !” I commenced, as though in harmony with 
some imaginary music, then dropping to the key of 
practical life I ended, “ rather hard.” But I was not 
thinking of what she was. Daily labor was forgotten. 
I was very much confused. 

To my temporary relief, my sister at this point dis¬ 
covered some beauty or oddity in my jacket buttons, 
and entered into an examination of them—tern- 


travellers’ entertainment. 231 

porary; for in so doing she pnlled Fanny close to me. 
The emanating glow of her healthful presence—I felt 
it flooding me with rapture. Cynthia induced her to 
touch with her Anger one of the buttons she was 
examining. As she withdrew her hand, mine by 
strange coincidence was rising, and they met softly 
palm to palm,—but an instant; both withdrew as 
though each had touched a serpent. 

“ Cynthia, let us go back,” said Fanny, looking 
towards the house and away from me. 

“Well, as thou mindest,” responded my sister 
cheerfully, and wheeling gracefully, they went away 
arm in arm as they had come—^yet soberly. 

“ Oh, my angel!” I whispered fervently, my burn¬ 
ing eyes resting upon the adored form. “ Oh, 
misery!” loaded the next breath. “ She does not 
love me. She will not love. What shall I do ?” I 
was overwhelmed with melancholy. All that I had 
done to fortify myself—all my fancied security, gone 
as chaff. “Dear, dear Fanny. Cruel Fanny. She 
might love me. There is nothing hateful about me, 
I know. Other girls, prouder than she, are glad of 
my attentions. She shuns me as if I were wild and 
filthy, or wicked, and would do her harm.” 


232 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


There was no alleviation, except a little in uttering 
my woes. It was morning when the foregoing 
transaction came to pass. At noon I could eat noth¬ 
ing. “Thou art sick, my son,” remarked my mother, 
feeling my pulse. I was. 

“Let him work. That will cure him,” said my 
father. 

“ Oh, no, father; he isn’t well. Don’t thee see ? he 
is pale,” expostulated Cynthia. 

“ I know what’ll cure him,” said my father, regard¬ 
less. So did I. 

That afternoon I did not work in the field. I went 
to my bed-room, and in the midst of sighs, groans, 
and some hot tears, gave birth to a few short, irregu¬ 
lar stanzas upon the subject of love. Short and irre¬ 
gular as they were, they expressed volumes for me. I 
felt greatly relieved, so much so, that about four 
o’clock I went down and ate a hearty meal. 

Still, a dim, and dimming shadow of melancholy 
remained—for days, weeks. It did not go away at 
all for the present. 

Fanny did not come to our house except when I 
was at work in the field. She never was there when 
I was there. Why? Why? I frequently asked 


travellers’ entertainment. 233 

injself. At last, in a bold mood, I asked Cynthia. 
She did not answer me, and she blushed a little, I 
thought. I did not repeat. Thus matters went on. 
The spring passed, and the summer, nearly. It was 
late in that season, that a pic-nic was concocted. The 
fact was duly and formally made known to me by 
way of a note, requesting my attendance—with lady. 
With lady. Who should that lady be? Fanny 
would not go "with me ; and I would go with no one 
else. I guessed there would be no lady. Yet I must 
have a lady or stay at home. Some one might offer 
to take Fanny. Yes. But could I stand that ? ITo. 
I would make an effort to get her. I penned a brief, 
formal invitation, and through the medium of Cyn¬ 
thia, had it conveyed to her. I was so much sur¬ 
prised when Cynthia handed me, on her return, a 
billet, that I blushed exceedingly—^partly because I 
thought it was my own sent back. With pleasure my 
invitation was accepted. But it was merely a form. 
She might have written the same to anybody. So I 
thought; but, like a sensible youth, I quarrelled not 
with the thought, because it would come to nothing 
but bitterness. She had accepted my company. 
That should suffice. 


234 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


The day appointed for the pic-nic came, and in 
good country style Fanny and I joined the party, and 
all went gleesomely away to a grove upon the bank 
of a large stream, three or four miles distant from my 
father’s. The day passed in the happiest manner, 
and it was pretty far in the evening when we separa¬ 
ted to go to our homes. During the whole of the 
joyous time, Fanny was the gayest of the gay; but 
when the company separated, and we were alone 
together, going homeward, she was silent. I made 
some casual remarks, to which she answered briefly, 
but her voice was mild—^had a touch of pathos in it 
which thrilled me. Oh, how 1 loved those sweet 
accents ! but could not utter my love. 

It was dark when we arrived at her father’s. The 
new moon had set, and it was quite dark. I held one 
of her hands in mine while opening the gate that she 
might pass through: the impulse was upon me. Con¬ 
science raised a voice of warning. Caution pulled its 
thousand strings. They were nothing. I obeyed the 
impulse and pressed her hand. Warm and velvety it 
was,—and something more. The keenest delight I 
believe my soul has ever experienced, was at that 
moment. Tenderly given it was—that response— 


travellers’ entertainment. 235 

with a tremor of her fingers. I felt it all. I feel it 
now. I felt it this evening, when we were sitting in 
silence, and the twilight was fading. I shall never 
forget it; for it was the first true love-response that 

greeted mj opening passion.- 

What time is it ?” asked the Quaker of the sup¬ 
posed lawyer, who was consulting his watch. 

“ I beg pardon, sir,” responded the other, essaying 
to put his watch back into its fob. “Don’t let it 
interrupt you. It’s impudence I know; but don’t 
let it interrupt you, sir.” 

“ By no means,” cheerfully said the Quaker. “ I 
really want to know the time. My watch has 
stopped.” 

Assured that he had done no outrage, the lawyer 
drew forth his time-piece again, and scrutinizing it 
carefully by the moonlight, he announced that it was 
quarter-past nine. 

“ You will release me, then, I hope,” said the Qua¬ 
ker, addressing us collectively. “It’s bed-time for 
honest people, according to the saying.” 

“ Yes, but you don’t mean to apply that remark to 
the present company, I hope,” remarked the lawyer, 
facetiously inclined. 



236 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


!N'o attention was paid to the remark, and the Qua¬ 
ker went on—“I think IVe discharged my duty. 
We were up pretty late last night. By the way, too, 
here’s another gentleman. If you wish further enter¬ 
tainment, he is prepared, no doubt. I mo ”- 

“ None of your motioning,” the lawyer put in, 
promptly. “ You’re not going to fool us thus. Don’t 
you know, my esteemed friend, that your story’s only 
half done ? You have lived thus far in vain, if you 
suppose we’ll let you off this side of eternity without 
t’other half. I’ll leave it to the rest of the com¬ 
pany.” We assented to the lawyer’s remark. After 
which the bald-headed man observed, there being 
silence, “ I think it’s very interactin’.” 

“ You do ? Indeed!” responded the Quaker, smil¬ 
ing ; and we all smiled ; for the bald-headed was very 
earnest in his manner. There was more silence. 
“ By the by,” said the lawyer, “ before you begin 
again—^you’ve got to begin, sir !—^I want to indulge 
in something personal. Why is it you don’t say thee 
and thou, being a Quaker ?” 

“ When among Homans, be a Homan.” 

“ That’s all, is it ?” 

The Quaker bowed assent, saying, ‘‘ When I am 



TEAVETXEKS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 


237 


away from home I never indulge in things calculated 
to reveal the social and religious relations in which I 
have been reared—except as my dress may betoken 
them.” This satisfied the lawyer, and he was appa¬ 
rently about to express his satisfaction, when the 
Quaker interrupted, asking—“ Have I—to return the 
same coin—have I guessed right in guessing—my 
Yankee friends will excuse my play upon their favor¬ 
ite word—^that you have left the sea, and now prac¬ 
tice law ?” 

“True as the world!” responded the other with 
some surprise. “ There is some shrewdness left. I 
sir, an humble aspirant to forensic distinction, I 
am happy to say. But these things are foreign to 
the case. I suppose now as IVe obliged yon with a 
direct answer to a leading question, you will not 
object to directly taking up the thread of your dis¬ 
course, eh? Gentlemen, I perceive it in his eye— 
Listen. 


238 


QREKN JSIOUNTArN 


CHAPTER YII. 

Obedient to the lawyer’s injunction, we listened. 

I am sorry—so the Quaker resumed, first address¬ 
ing the lawyer—that you find it in your heart to bo 
so exacting. I hope you will have occasion to 
repent. I fear you will. Your abettors, too. Gen¬ 
tlemen, I mean no disrespect;—that man knoweth 
not what he doth. But to your general selfishness 
represented in him, I make no appeal; only remark¬ 
ing, that I began with no determined end, but that 
I begin now, with such end full in view, and you 
must accompany me to it. If it prove a punishment, 
it will be no more nor less than you deserve. So 
much ; and you may call it preface. 

How, let’s see, where did I leave my young self? 
In great bliss I remember. Yes, at the gate, in a 
rapturous aberrance, from which he directly reco¬ 
vered sufficiently to mount the carriage and drive 
home. A sweet, tumultuous overfiow of sentiment 


TRATELLERS^ ENTERTAINMENT. 


239 . 


visited me that night, happifjing and beautifying the 
vista of the future—before I slept, most beamingly— 
afterwards in gorgeous flashes that thrilled me as one 
entranced is thrilled with visions of heaven. Adored 
Fanny! could she but know what that tremulous 
response had done for me I This was the fervent 
wish of my heart when I awoke, or rather came out 
of physical sleep. I did not awake. !No; though 
the dream was troubled, sorely troubled, as with 
flends dire and remorseless, I did not awake. I have 
not awaked; ay, I dream still on that very subject, 
though I must confess the dream has for many long 
years seemed marvellously like reality. Pardon this 
anticipating—this weaving ahead of the main cloth, 
to use a metaphor. I am no ingenious flctionist. 
This is my excuse. 

I have now a new character to bring before you; 
and I approach him in the bright fleld—beyond the 
intervening shadows—as I would approach a serpent. 
Samuel Toom. Old Abel’s only child. The boy 
whom Joshua saved from drowning. A handsome 
boy in shape he was—symmetrically built and easy 
of movement. To see him at a little distance, 
walking, one could not help exclaiming at his singu- 


240 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN 


larly graceful carriage, and a stranger would have 
approached him sure of being pleased. Nor would 
the contemplator have been undeceived until he 
came to look closely upon his countenance. There 
the devil within him ever dwelt, sleepily coiled— 
like an adder. Sleepily coiled, yet within ever 
nerved to the most deadly precision. I do not speak 
now as I felt then. I had then a dim eye towards 
human faces—a charitable way of considering human 
actions. 

This Samuel Toom had been at one short time 
during my earlier boyhood an intimate; and notwith¬ 
standing Joshua’s disparaging remarks, I retained 
an affection for him up to the time of which I shall 
soon speak. His father being poor, Samuel had 
been obliged early in life to shift for himself; and he 
had shifted so much to his advantage that he had at 
the age of fourteen obtained a situation in a dry- 
goods store in Harrisburg, nearly seventy miles from 
his old home—working his way there unaided, 
except by his own ingenuity and craft. He was 
about a year older than I, and was therefore at this 
time in his seventeenth year-—just Fanny’s age. 

I was surprised to meet him at the pic-nic. He 


travellers’ entertainment 241 

told me after oui* greeting, wliicli was cordial on my 
part, that he had returned the week before, and 
would remain a couple of months—“ to,” he said 
whisperingly in my ear, “spark the country gals, 
you know,—among other things of less importance,” 
he added aloud. I inhaled his breath. It was 
strong with brandy. 

“ Thy breath smells bad,” said I reprovingly. 

“ Only a little for the awcasion, you know,” he 
answered with a kind of snorting smirk, and left me, 
mingling again with the company. From that 
moment I began to distrust him. 

The next evening after the pic-nic Fanny was at 
our house a little while. While there, she stayed in 
the sitting-room, and talked in a lively manner with 
my mother and Cynthia about one thing and another, 
among the rest mentioning the fact, that her parents 
had determined to send her to Harrisburg to attend 
school a year. The announcement startled me, who 
was listening in rapt attention, into asking her when 
she intended to go. My voice trembled some, at 
which my sister smiled, but Fanny was sober, and 
there was a marked sadness in her tone when she 
answered, that the intention was to have her go 


11 


242 


GKEEN MOUNTAIN 


about the first of [November. Wbat! so soon as 
that 1” exclaimed Cjnthia, and she, too, was sober. 
Nothing more was said about it. 

That night a comforting determination took posses¬ 
sion of me. I would visit Fanny. She was going away, 
and therefore it could not be improper nor harmful. 
The recollection of the sweet response, too, confirmed 
me. Yet I would not be precipitous. Two months 
must elapse before her departure. I would wait 
awhile; but I would certainly go—once at any 
rate. 

It was a happy resolution, and in the morning I 
found myself deepened in it. I at once chose the day 
upon which I would make the call, and my mind set¬ 
tled down fixedly upon it. 

The intervening time was much longer in passing 
than my imagination had taught me to believe it 
would be, but the day came at last, and, after elabo¬ 
rate adjustments at the toilet, I sallied forth, without 
informing any one of my destination. I found Fanny 
at home, body and soul. She received me cordially, 
without any appearance of surprise, and behaved 
towards me something after a sisterly fashion, talking 
and laughing with exceeding liveliness—too much 


TEAYELLERS’ ENTEETAmCENT. 243 

animation, I thought, to be altogether pleasing. She 
took me into the garden, and showed me her Autumn- 
flowers, some of which were fading. One was droop¬ 
ing—the stalk being fractured—and she stooped over it, 
caressing and propping it. She spoke tenderly of it, 
and of its being a flower such as Seraph used to love. 
After that, while I stayed, she was as I wanted her to 
be. Her voice was plaintive; and just before I 
went away, she spoke of her anticipated departure, 
shedding tears. 

It was a pleasant interview, all in all, and brought 
me to another determination, namely, to visit her 
again, though she had not requested it. That she had 
not was an inadvertence to me—by a convenient 
sophistry made to appear—and did not take form as 
objection to my going again. Precisely two weeks— 
two weeks was the interval before, dating from my 
first resolve—and I would repeat the visit. So regu¬ 
lar we are before the race becomes desperate! 

Two weeks. As a kind of disagreeable necessity 
they passed —at lengthy being in a manner insupport- 
ably dry and uninteresting, except a little ogling—the 
first—on one of the intervening Sabbaths. A sweet, 
delicate taste it was, like honey distilled. Oh, that 


244 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


such dews would lull the craving I Then might love 
abide and be always sweet. 

The promised evening came, and equipped in my 
best, I made the promised visit. With tremendous 
thumpings of heart, which sounded to me much louder - 
than the bashful knock that I laid upon the door, 

I stood expectant. She met me all smiles, and over¬ 
flowing with cheerful remarks —very cordial she was, 
and polite. I did not like it. There seemed a frost 
in it. But she was less lively after a little, and 
brought me a book of hers to read—conversation 
having flagged. A favorite she said, and pointed out 
several passages, turning over the leaves, while I held 
the book, with her pretty Angers—there was nothing 
frosty in that. When she had pointed out the pas¬ 
sages, she went away to the window, looking out, 
while I made a feint of reading. As I was turning 
over the leaves something fell out of the book upon 
the floor. I did not pick it up at first; and when I 
did, in a fit of absence, I put it in my pocket. 

I did not stay so long this time as before, but left in 
a charmed state, determined, even previous to taking 
leave, that I would come again. Two weeks more. 
That was to be my last visit, I resolved, and hoped to 


TKAVELLEES’ ENTERTAINMENT. 


245 


be able to keep my resolve. But I did not make the 
visit. Tlie cause will appear. 

On the evening fixed, I prepared my exterior with 
care, as usual, and was about starting, when a succession 
of trifles sprang up, which so hindered me that I did 
not start until nearly dark. As I was hurrying along, 
my mind filled with the honeyed vapor of my antici¬ 
pations, I was brought to a sudden halt, by hearing a 
groan, as of one in distress. I immediately saw the 
source of it—S. Toom. “ Samuel what ails thee?” I 
inquired with solicitude. 

“Deacon, is that you? By the Lord, but Bm 
glad.” He was sitting by the road-side, cherishing 
one of his feet, from which the boot was removed. 
“ What ails thy foot?” I inquired further, guessing 
that to be the seat of his distress. 

“Foot?” he responded, “I have a story to tell you. 
I hope you’ll befriend me, eh? I know you will: 
you’re the likeliest young man in this town, and the 
best friend I’ve got, too. Well, I was down to the 
river to-day, on a stroll, and I felt something crawl¬ 
ing in my boot. Directly I sits down on the bank— 
I was right along there where it’s steep, you know. 
Off comes boot. Hothing in that. Crawl, crawl, in 


246 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN 


my stocking. I pulls at the stocking like Satan,— 
Bcart a little, you understand. I jerked. My stock* 
ing came off unexpectedly, and my hand hit the 
boot—and, by the poker ! knocked the thing right off 
into the river, and away it went. Now the fact is. 
I’ve been trying to get home without it, and I’m 
about dead. My foot—^lord! it seems like a blister. 
Deacon, the fact is, I’ve got to ask a favor of you, 
now you’re here.” 

I begged him to name it without reserve—I was in 
a hurry; but that I did not mention. “ I know it’s 
an ungraceful request. But I’ll be bound to you all 
my life if you’ll accede. The fact is, I want one of 
your boots for about a half hour or so, till I can cut 
home and back again. Now do.” I had a dim eye 
towards human faces, and it was dark, too. I let him 
have my boot. 

Half-an hour! I could bear the sacrifice to do an 
act of kindness. He had incidentally promised to 
come back there with the boot, and so I sat down 
whence he had arisen, and waited. It was nearly 
opposite the gate, and in full view of the parlor win¬ 
dows. Not long after the gentleman had disap¬ 
peared, and while I was looking and longing, the 


TRAVELLEKS ENTERTAINMENT. 


247 


parlor was suddenly lighted, and the shutters to one 
of the windows thrown open. I could see in quite 
distinctly. I saw Fanny, waiting for me, not very 
impatiently, I guessed, for I heard her laugh aloud, 
and strike off into a lively remark of some sort—I 
could almost hear the words—I tried to hear them, 
be assured, holding my breath. A change took 
place in the lights, so that I saw in more distinctly, 
and I saw—I wiped my eyes, and saw standing by 
the centre-table, a young man. It was no illusion, 
though I had at first a disposition to make it so. 
Who was it ? Who was it ? I could almost say for 
a certainty. I arose to my feet unconsciously, look¬ 
ing—^not looking so much as piercing with my eyes; 
but the distance—-jealous distance!—^it forbade. I 
walked across the street: when I reached the fence, 
I looked again, but he was not to be seen. Fanny 
had taken a seat by the window, resting her elbow 
on the sill. There was a masculine arm and hand 
resting on the same sill. My physical vision of these 
facts was dim, but my mental—^liow vivid ! Could I 
have known just then to whom that reposing arm 
and hand belonged, it might have given me a kind 
of hangman’s relief. But that was not vouchsafed. 


248 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


I returned to the opposite fence and waited. A 
half-an hour I knew it was, and yet no boot. A 
passing suspicion had been in my mind. It came 
again, passing quickly, however, because I would not 
have it so. The moon was rising above the trees 
very brightly. It shone upon that window brighter 
and brighter. I crossed the street again. I had 
almost ceased to expect my boot that night, and that 
suspicion was wrestling sorely with my incredulity. 
The forms were gone from the window. Directly, I 
heard voices in the garden—the garden was by the 
street, a few yards from where I stood. I crept 
along the fence—crept slower and slower, and low¬ 
lier, listening. It was Fanny talking about .the 
moonlight. I heard her words, but I paid little 
attention to them. I was searching for a greater 
fact; she ceased speaking, and immediately the fact 
was developed: “I cannot tell thee how much I 
love it, too.” The self-same voice my boot was 
begged with !—on a different key—floating with the 
most winning modulation—^but the same. It was as 
a clap of thunder first, and then as martial music to 
me. My blood boiled with unutterable rage. It 
was genuine wrath seven times heated ; and it grew 


TRAVELLERS ENTERTAINMENT. 


249 


hotter with every pulsation of my furious heart. 
But in the midst of it there was conscience—^kind 
monitor! The All-seeing only knows what the 
“ still, small voice ” saved the demon Samuel, that 
night, perhaps his life. . He had trifled with my 
heart’s best impulses, and he was trifling with its 
sweetest. Conscience ! But for that I would have 
torn him. Yet my mother had not sought to incul¬ 
cate the spirit of the words, ‘‘ Turn the other cheek, 
also,” in vain. The general remembrance calmed 
me like the voice of an angel, and I walked home¬ 
ward—what need had I longer to stay? pervaded 
with a sense of something like a triumph. Yet it 
was to some degree illusive. One strong sentiment 
had displaced another, and when the reaction came, 
which was soon, I was thrown into a condition—new 
then—since more familiar. I was jealous; and all 
the pangs of that helpless state were mine. I ceased 
to reflect upon the wrong Samuel had done me, and 
thought, with a most turbulent incongruity and 
unreasonableness of feeling, only of Fanny. I do 
not remember now how I made out the case. But 1 
found plenty of aliment for the new condition, and 
could not go to sleep even after I heard the clocl? 

\ 


250 


GKEEN MOUNTAIN 


toll the hour of midnight, and I tried to sleep. The 
lively laugh, the juxtaposition of the two arms and 
hands on the window-sill, the pathetic apostrophe to 
the moonlight, I could recall it clearly—they were in 
my mind as memories of events vitally important. 

They multiplied, and their offspring were more 
hideous than they. I was tortured, but at last fell 
asleep. 

Ill the morning, as I was hanging up my fine vest, 
I saw something white, sticking out of one of the 
pockets. I plucked it forth. It was a card. There 
was writing on it:—“ Dear Frances, * * * 

your devoted friend, S. Toom.” I looked at it more 
narrowly. It could not be so bad as that. Ho ; it 
was only an invitation to attend a pic-nic, the pic-nic 
of six weeks previous, I saw by the date. The 
date—it was one day after that of my note to her. 
Ay, I saw another fact—two of them. She had, 
before receiving this card, pledged herself to me, 

otherwise-, and she had slipped this card into my 

pocket that I might know, and that I might no 
further interfere. Why, it was as plain as—as—I 
wanted it to be. “Fear not,” said I, addressing a 
profile view of her in my imagination, “ I pity thee; 


travellers’ entertainment. 251 

but I will not disturb tby short-lived happiness,” and 
in a resigned mood I went down to breakfast. 

The next evening but one, I was sitting on the 
front-door step by myself. The sky was overcast, 
and the dismal autumn-wind howled and moaned in 
the forest, and whistled mysteriously about the old 
house. The wind was not cold, but especially sad in 
its tone, whether from wandering far among bare 
boughs and withered leaves and dry stalks that had 
once borne flowers, I know not, perhaps—and perhaps 
a deeper cause—a cause which man would not bear 
to know in this rudimental state of being—made it so 
sad. It matters, however, only to know that its wild 
voice led my soul resistlessly as it had been passion¬ 
ate music. I was very wretched, yet had a kind of 
glory in my wretchedness. My scope of thought and 
fancy was not broad, however; and I was buffetted 
with repetitions which, as they were familiar, had no 
alleviation. I was getting into deep despondency— 
almost to tears, when, hearing a slight rustling sound 
in the direction of the street, I looked up, just in 
time to ■ see my honest, ill-used boot come swooping 
over the front fence straight towards me. End over 
end it came, descending, and, striking flat on the 


252 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


paved path, slid up to my very feet, the leg thereof 
lopping towards me like a clumsy bow. It was 
nearly dark, yet I could see, as I picked up the boot, 
a roughly sketched figure on the face of it—a repre¬ 
sentation of a thumb, a nose, and fingers to corres¬ 
pond. I took the idea. It stabbed me as though it 
had been a poniard, driven by the same remorseless 
hand. It was the last, unkindest cut, mangling, 
annihilating cut. It bewildered me. I could not 
think of it. I could think of nothing. I went up to 
my bed, and essayed to lose my woes in sleep. I 
tried in vain. I could not go to sleep. On the con¬ 
trary I went wide awake, my mind jerked here and 
there like a piece of bread in a nest of ants. I tossed 
until I was tired, and then lay still till I was tired. 
I tossed again, and lay still again, with the same 
result. There was something wanting that would 
have made me calm, or something existing within me, 
originating in myself, which some action of mine 
could have removed, that made me so restless. The 
gratuitous cruelty which had been inflicted upon me, 
could not alone have done it. I felt this fact dimly, 
as one asleep feels external things—then more dis 
tinctly, awakening. Perhaps my suspicion regarding 


TKAVELLEKS ENTERTArCTMENT. 


253 


Fanny was unfounded. A recollection flashed upon 
me. Tliat card I had put in my own pocket. It fell 
from her book. Shameful, shameful, that I should 
ever have thought it. Fanny was just as lively in 
her bearing towards me, as I had seen her that night 
towards Samuel. It was her habit. Sam would not 
have taken such pains to impose upon me, had he 
been sure of his prize. Thus a new view dawned 
upon my judgment, and I saw why I was so restlee-s. 
I had wronged Fanny; yet only in my heart. I grew 
calm speedily, and was soon asleep. 

In the morning I awoke in the same calm state of 
mind in which I had fallen asleep. I remembered 
Samuel’s unmannerly deed; but reflected coolly upon 
it; for I had assurance that it was a dastardly act, 
which would come out at his cost. 

The day of Fanny’s departure came. I had been 
once in the meantime to see her; but had not found 
her at home. The friendly, and slightly regretful 
allusion she had made to it a day or two after at our 
house, where she had called a few minutes, I dared 
to conjecture, chiefly to express her regret, atoned 
fully for the disappointment, and I meditated upon 
her anticipated departure with unmingled sorrow. 


254 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


The day came. My sister and 1 were there. Few 
words were spoken. Her father, mother and brother 
were to accompany her ; so she had only to bid fare¬ 
well to Cynthia and me. As we all stood at the gate 
•—the carriage being in readiness, and she but a 
minnte to stay—she took ns both at once by the 
hand, and touching her lips to Cynthia’s, said, with 
deep earnestness. 

“ I do not like to leave you. I know I shall find 
no friends so good. Do thou write to me Cynthia— 
often. Good-by!” 

We made no response. Cynthia was weeping, and 
I was little short of it. 

Good-by!” she said again, after mounting the 
carriage. We gave back the word mechanically, and 
turned away to our home very sorrowful. 

For a few days I was very sad. But I gradually 
got the better of it, though visited with occasional 
pangs from the consciousness that Samuel would be 
near her, he having returned to Harrisburg a few 
days before she went. 

I resumed m}’- attendance at the village school, and 
in the pursuit of my studies lost sight, in a measure, 
of my social afflictions. The days passed pleasantly. 


TEAVELLERS ENTERTAINMENT. 


255 


and the nights—with exceptions. I was cheerful 
and hopeful. 

Some time about midwinter, one evening, as I was 
sitting with the family, my mother interrupted the 
silence, addressing my father—“ Ahasuerus, hast thou 
thought on that matter V’ 

“ Yes, yes,” responded my father, testily. 

“Well,” said my mother, and there was silence 
again. 

My curiosity was awakened, and I waited for some¬ 
thing further. Presently, after much fumbling in and 
about his pockets, my father went to the bureau and 
brought a letter. “Prom Joshua,” whispered Cyn¬ 
thia to me. 

“ Deacon,” said my father, seating himself, “ what 
does thee think about it?” I did not know what he 
meant, and told him so. “ Read the letter to him,” 
said my mother. My father, thereupon, read it— 
slowly through his spectacles—until he came to the 
last page. I could see nothing especial in it, and I 
remarked to that effect, interrupting my father. 
“Wait, my son,” observed my mother, significantly. 

“Your son, Ahasuerus the younger,” read my 
father; “ a word or so or more about him. I like the 


256 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


boy, and it has occurred to me that he is not alto¬ 
gether contented with his present prospects for the 
future. I want to see the lad brought out, and pro¬ 
perly harnessed for the battle. I^ow I have to pro¬ 
pose, in so many words, that the boy come here and 
study medicine with me.’’ 

‘‘That’s remarked my father, “l^ow, what 
does thee think of it ?” 

I had but one thought of it. “ Of course. I’ll go,” 
said I. 

“Thou must think seriously on it, my son,” 
enjoined my mother. “It is for life.” So I knew, 
and it strengthened my sudden resolve. “ I’ll go,” 
said I again. “ I don’t see as there’s anything more 
to be said about it, then,” observed my father, appeal¬ 
ing to my mother. “Hothing now,” she replied 
soberly. 

Glorious, new future to me ! The old was cast off 
as filthy rags, and in the warmth of my imagination, 
I longed to start upon the new path—even that 
night. 

In a few days the matter was, after various earnest 
consultations, arranged. It was determined that I 
should remain at school until it should close; and 


travellers’ entertainment. 257 

thereafter immediately go to Harrisburg to com 
mence my medical studies. 

The winter wore away. The spring came. The 
school closed, and I set about preparing for depar¬ 
ture. It was a grievous trial for my parents and 
Cynthia to part with me, and there was much weep¬ 
ing and heaviness of heart on the morning that I 
went away. Delia was there with her child, a 
healthful, lively little creature, who called me by the 
same nick-name—^because it couldn’t pronounce the 
whole name—by which Seraph used to call me. 
They all gathered around me at the old gate, all feel¬ 
ing very sad—all except father and little Isaac, the 
baby. They were exceptions, because father was 
going with me, and little Isaac wouldn’t be anything 
else; and his lively example exercised considerable 
counteracting influence, so that the actual moment of 
parting was more cheerful than otherwise. 

We walked over to the village—my father and I— 
my trunk having been sent earlier in the morning 
by tlie hired-man. At the village we took stage, and 
late in the night drove into the city of Harrisburg. 
By pre-arrangement we stopped at the hotel where 
Joshua boarded, and in the morning, as we descended 


258 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


to breakfast, we met him in the lower hall. ‘‘ Unex¬ 
pectedly fortunate all through life—thus he began, 
before we saw him, his voice sounding like a familiar 
tune ; then taking our hands, he inquired about our 
condition of body and mind, and about that of those 
at home, coming to a dead stop when my father inci¬ 
dentally mentioned the infant Isaac, declaring, with 
an excellent imitation of sudden physical debility, 
that he must have breakfast immediately, or perish 
under the stroke. 

At the table he so far recovered as to remark 
that it had become imperatively necessary for 
him to keep better note of the passage of time. 
“ Why,” said he, “ it seems but yesterday, or the day 

before, at most, that Delia was a handsome, promis- 

\ 

ing female babe; and now you say a being actually 
exists that calls her mother! It was bad enough to 
have her married before I could realize the absence 
of her short clothes. But now—you’re a veracious 
man, and have a boy, here, who bears an oath in his 
countenance to confirm your statement. I must give 
in, I suppose.” 

After breakfast, he conducted us to his office, 
Thich I entered with a feeling somewhat akin to awe. 


TEAVELLEES’ ENTEETAINMENT. 259 

But that feeling passed off in a measure, soon—suffi¬ 
ciently to allow mj entering into a survey of the 
premises. While my father and Joshua were indulg¬ 
ing in some reminiscent observations, I went on with 
my survey. The office comprised two rooms—the 
front one being furnished with a set of plain chairs, 
much worn—the more so, I thought then, shrewdly, 
for having been so often occupied by nervous inva¬ 
lids ; a round table, covered with green baize, worn 
through in several places, particularly within elbow- 
reach of the front edge ; an old desk—very old—in 
which were many—it seemed to me then innumerable 
•—phials, of every possible variety of shape and size ; 
a stove—but that was bran new, which fact I inferred 
as much as anything from its having been spit upon 
but twice—at least, had but two stains of tobacco 
juice upon it; and last of all, a pile of books lying on 
the round table. I noticed these last in order, and 
went to them for a closer scrutiny. They were, or 
purported to be, “ Collections from the Old Masters.” 
Music, all music; not a word of printing as I could 
see, except the title-pages. Two ot them were ponder- 
oiu volumes—huge quartos, bound in thick sheep-skin. 
Th^ others were smaller—contents arranged for the 


260 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


voice. In them was something that at first sight 
looked like printing; but I could make no sense of 
it, so I concluded it was musical signs, and was about 
expressing myself on the subject, when Joshua 
remarked, parenthetically to what he was saying to 
my father, “ Careful, my boy. Those books are the 
apple of mine eye.” This embarrassed me so much 
that I immediately gave up the investigation, and 
took a seat, gathering assurance again by looking 
into the back-room. That room was carpeted, and the 
windows shaded with red curtains. It had a plain, 
neat settee in it, and an interminable library—so my 
impression was then—of books old and new, with 
gilt-lettered titles, written titles, and no titles. Some 
of them were not bound, some with one side-cover 
on; some in cloth, some in paper, others in leather— 
heavy leather and fine leather, polished. Some very 
large and thick, some large and thin, some small and 
worn as with much handling. Immense the number 
seemed. If I had been required to guess it, I pre¬ 
sume I should have said ten thousand, feeling safe; 
though in fact there were not more than three hun¬ 
dred. As I looked I became interested, for that was 
the pile in whose labyrinths I was to wander for the 


TJRAVELLEES’ ENTEETAINMENT. 261 

next half a dozen years. I went into the room to 
take a narrower look. My former ideas were only 
magnified. I became bewildered directly, and tired, 
and was glad to retreat from the solid, august array. 
I retreated, back foremost, stumbling over a chair as 
I re-entered the front room, which mishap aroused 
Joshua and my father, who were deep down in some 
well, groping for reluctant facts that had once been 
living truths to them—aroused them very much, and 
they both stretched and yawned into a full realiza¬ 
tion of the present. ‘‘ The time, Joshua?” ash:ed my 
father. 

“ The time ”—began Joshua, musingly. “ Oh, the 
time of day ?” he continued, drawing forth his watch, 
and suppressing a laugh at his misapprehension. 
‘‘ Why, you’ve been here about an hour.” He then 
stated the hour, whereupon my father jumped up as 
though casting off a burden, or by the motion was 
extracting one of his teeth, and declared he must be 
at the hotel in half an hour, that he might not be left 
behind. Joshua apprehended him at first, with some 
real difficulty, and afterwards with much sham. And 
when the idea that my father was to return home that 
day, was fully developed in his mind, he beset him in 


262 


gekp:n mountain 


the most vigorous manner, to treat the intention, as 
he did, with unmeasured contempt. But my father 
was inflexible, and we all went back to the hotel. 

Just before the stage drove up, my father took 
Joshua one side, and talked in a low, serious voice to 
him. I could see their faces ; and I saw that Joshua 
took what was said with calm, serious assent, and that 
my father was singularly earnest. I guessed the 
theme, though I could not distinguish a word, and I 
felt a kind of glory in having two such protectors 
in this world. 

Soon the stage drove up, and my father, taking my 
hand, said very mechanically, with his voice pitched 
on an unusual key, “Good-by!” It was all he said; 
and I’m inclined to think all he could say, and main¬ 
tain his dignity. He did not look at me any more, but 
took his seat stiffly, and passed away from our pre¬ 
sence, gazing steadfastly into the fore-interior of the 
stage. 

Home had so far seemed connected with me; but 
now that connection was severed—the cord was wind¬ 
ing up away from me, and I felt for the moment 
quite alone. A great sigh was preparing to escape 
me, wfflen was I brought to a healthful and proper 


TRAVELLERS ENTERTAINMENT. 


263 


sense of my real position, by Joshua taking me by 
the arm, and leading me off with mock severity, 
towards his office. 

“ I hope,” said he, keeping up the joke, as he went 
along, ‘‘ that your behavior will be such, that extre¬ 
mities will not have to be resorted to. Be calm, sir 
and in due time you will be released, a better and a 
wiser man.” 

When we reached the office, he changed his tone, 
saying, “ Deacon, for a day or two, wander and sip, 
and get so you can look around without staring, 
Tlien I’ll begin with you—yea, I will put you upon 
the tread-wheel; but you shall have oats, and a pro¬ 
spect of meadows green, where streams perennial flow, 
and where sweet wild oats grow, you know.” 

I made a remark, embodying my impressions of 
the place, to which he responded, “ Just so. May 
you always be happy, bedewed, and refreshed for ever 
in this world of woe!—By the way. Deacon, I must 
go out professionally. Tell any one who enters the 
premises, that you can’t do anything for them; and 
that Doctor Hoyles is gone out.” So saying, he left 
me alone, to amuse myself till noon. 

What do you suppose I thought of, the very first 


264 


GKKEN MOUNTAIN 


thing after Joshua went out, and the room was silent. 
Just this:—Fanny Cline. I thought of her, and I 
thought not seriously of anything else all the time 
Joshua was gone—more than two hours. I thought 
warm thoughts, and cool thoughts—warm thoughts 
of her, of Tier^ living, adorable angel! and cool 
thoughts of a plan by which I would gain an inter¬ 
view with her. Nothing came of it, however, but a 
nervous head-ache, which lasted, getting severer 
towards night, until I fell asleep—late in the evening. 

The next morning I kept such thoughts out of my 
mind by special edict of the will, and commenced 
seriously to reconnoitre the awful library. But before 
the close of the day—it was near the close—when I 
thought I had done all that an attempt required; 
1 took a seat facing one of the windows in the back 
room, which window opened towards the west, and I 
became enthralled again, as I had been the day before. 
The window was up, and the curtain, and I watched 
the great, red sun, as it went calmly down, not think¬ 
ing about it, but about what it suggested. The same 
sun, looking nearly the same, had gone down another 
season, shining in my face, while my ear drank the 
pathetic melody of that mild voice so thrillingly 


TRAVELLEKS’ ENfERTAINMENT. 265 

sweet—then. When the sun was clown, there was a 
soft flush of living twilight. And I made it still 
more alive, for I was so fanciful as to weave a bright 
angelic form there, in the midst of it. But it was 
a fleeting form, only suggesting thoughts that made 
me indifferent to the twilight. A lively train. She 
is in the same city with me, and we are away from 
home—so the train moved. She is sitting perhaps at 
this moment, at the western window of her room— 
her own private room, thinking. Tliinking! oh, 
that I were there, to help her think—to talk with her 
—about home. Oh, I would not talk with her about 
anything else. Only about home. Perhaps about 
the pic-nic, as being legitimately connected with it. 
Perhaps about the evening that followed. hTo; I 
would not allude to that. She might, if she wished. 
I hope she will. The morning in the spring, too, 
when thou and Cynthia came out into the field where 
I was. Tliat was home. "We will talk about that, 
sweet Fanny. Hold! ahem! It was of no use. I 
had been talking aloud—two or three sentences. Is 

it possible any one ?- There was Joshua’s face, 

resting against the door-casing, looking solemnly 
at me. 

12 



266 


gkkk:n mountain 


‘‘ Mj dear boj,” said he, with much feeling, instead 
of laughing, as I anticipated, “I beg your pardon 
sincerely. Some day you may know why I stood 
here and listened. Kot now.” He came in, and put 
his arm around me as a tender father would around f, 
son younger than I was, and said, in a livelier tone, 
“ Deacon, the world looks bright to you now, don’t 
it?” Overcome with embarrassment at the disclo¬ 
sure I had made, I replied ‘‘yes,” without meaning 
it. Whereupon, he patted my shoulder, saying, 
“ To-morrow it won’t look so bright; for I’m going 
to begin to endow you with my mantle of wisdom, 
with the help of Pro/idence, and these books here.'’ 
Thus the subject was entirely changed. And it con¬ 
tinued changed; for directly afterwards, a crony of 
Joshua’s came in, and they sat down, spending the 
evening after a manner which did not afford oppor¬ 
tunity for quiet—or much other—^thought. This crony 
was afflicted in like manner with Joshua, namely, 
taking an overwhelming pleasure in music, accompa¬ 
nied with the bald illusion that he could make it. 
The evening was spent dreadfully, if we may attach 
any sacredness to the splendid creations of the “ Old 
Masters,” and tired at beholding the conflict, I 


travellers’ entertainment. 267 

slipped off, while the stimulated actors were execut¬ 
ing a flanking measure to save themselves in the 
heights of a solo, and went away to my bed antici¬ 
pating a renewal of the twilight reflections; but I 
suddenly and unexpectedly fell asleep. 

The following morning my studies were com¬ 
menced in earnest, and with them commenced a new 
and deep interest, which to this day has never ceased. 
But that interest, deep and lively as it was, and daily 
increasing, did not engross me. At quiet closes of 
day, and sometimes at other quiet hours when I was 
alone in the office, thoughts that were not of science, 
hopes that were not of distinction, gave light and life 
to my inner soul. And the more they came, the 
more they glowed, and the more I longed to see with 
my bodily vision the object of them. 

One evening—Sunday evening—I think it was the 
fourth Sunday of my sojourn—the mood was strong 
upon me; and in three minutes from the time the 
plan commenced, it was formed, and the day appoint¬ 
ed upon which I would go and see her—^Fanny. 
The principal part of the plan was to inform Joshua 
of my intention, and ask his advice. This was done 
modestly in the dark, as we were walking that same 


268 


GKEEN MOUNTAIN 


evening. I stated that she was an old friend of mine, 
and that I wanted to see her very mncli, and so forth, 
and so on—concealing the main fact as though he 
didn’t know it—and concluded with naming the day 
I had conditionally appointed. The whole matter 
was rather awkwardly and incoherently stated, and 
he pretended not to understand, requesting me to 
repeat, which I did; and in my anxiety to be 
explicit, I got so near the true state of the case that I 
told it bolt out, which I have no doubt was just what 
he wanted, for he met my confession with another 
embrace like the one of that second evening of my 
stay, and tendered at once his entire services. He 
had two or three patients, he said, in the institution, 
and was well acquainted with the teachers. He 
would go with me, and give me an introduction. 
Thus the matter was briefly arranged. 

Triday—the day came, and we went together as 
agreed. I was introduced flrst to the principal, a 
bland, amiable-appearing man, and afterwards by him 
to a manly-lookiiig pei*son in woman’s clothes, who 
wore spectacles over very severe, pale-blue eyes. 
Fanny was under her immediate supervision, she 
informed me, with very distinctly accented phraseo- 


TRAVKLLEKS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 269 

logy, and throiigli her, as a gate, I was admitted to 
the ambrosial presence. I had seen the dear being 
only in memory and imagination for the past five or 
six months, yet I knew her step before she entered 
the room, and I arose all aglow to greet her. But 
the gate creaked. “Ahem!” significantly remarked 
the manly-looking in woman’s clothes. Fanny was 
all aglow, too; hut that “ahem?” was magically 
chilling in its efiect. She came demurely up to me, 
and just touched my fingers with hers, and then took 
a seat on the opposite side of the room. A stiff 
dialogue thereupon ensued relative to home, and 
present prospects, likes and dislikes, intentions and so 
forth, and thus a half an hour passed—to me as 
something sweet, swallowed whole ; and I went away 
with a feeling of dissatisfaction, which I communi¬ 
cated to Joshua as we proceeded together towards 
the ofiice. 

“All natural and inevitable,” he observed, “but 
it’s no nse to fret. Wait for a more propitious sky, 
and other more propitious circumstances.” lie 
further remarked, that the school would be out early 
in the summer, and left the subject for me to pursue. 

It was a very consoling thought to me that a vaca- 


' 270 GEEEI^ MOUNTAIN 

tion was so soon to ensue in Fanny’s school, and I at 
once embraced a plan of action. It was plain, I 
reflected, that I could not visit her again as she was 
then situated, with any satisfaction, consequently I 
would defer all until the vacation. Then, before she 
should return, I would gain the sweet opportunity. 
To this end I immediately dispatched a billet by post, 
signifying my desire. To my agreeable surprise, I 
received an answer the day following, briefly grant¬ 
ing my request. It was written evidently in great 
haste—so I concluded by way of explanation of the 
facts that the hand-writing only resembled hers, and 
that two or three words were misspelled, a fault 
which in all her long letters to Cynthia I had never 
noticed. But I was too happy in my success to 
reflect nicely upon these things, and accordingly put 
the billet away, gratefully settling down upon the 
promised joy. 

Six weeks were to elapse before vacation would 
commence, and to the consumption, by the inch, of 
the long dreary interval, I addressed myself. Yet it 
was not so dreary when I got fairly at it, and four of 
the six weeks were soon past. I specify thus, for at 
the end of those four weeks, an event happened. 


TKAVEIXERS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 


271 


Since my arrival in Harrisburg, I had not seen 
S. Toom, though I had thought of him—and that not 
tenderly—often. Neither did I want to see him. 
But it was otherwise ordered. I was sitting one 
morning in the office-door, pleasantly reflecting upon 
the fact, that two-thirds of the hindrance to the 
anticipated interview were removed, when “Good 
morning. Doctor Munn,” startled me like a hiss. I 
looked up savagely, and there he stood, most defer¬ 
entially, with his hat ofi*. “Worthy disciple of 
Esculapius, how do you do this morning?” he con¬ 
tinued, perceiving I was not likely to return his 
salutation. I said nothing, and looked perseveringly 
away from him. But he was far from being bluffed. 
He ran on to considerable length in a very lively, 
desultory discourse upon the medical practice, old 
times, future times, present times, and local matters, 
and coming to an emphatic conclusion by asking me 
what were the latest advices from the Cline family. 
Boiling with wrath, I only looked fiercely in his face. 
“They say Fanny is in the city at school,” he continued, 
his sleepy, serpent eyes nearly closed. “ Demned 
squash-head of a girl, I think, eh ? Time thrown away 
schooling her.” I knew this was meant to insult me, 


m 


OKEKN MOUNTAIN 


and I resented it by leaving bim, and going into tbo 
back-room. “ Well, Doctor,’’ I heard him say, stand¬ 
ing at the door, “I suppose thou wouldst not take 
a little something to drink this morning—a little 
cold water toddy ?” It was too much. Grasping a 
pestle, I rushed out, angry, even to the shedding of 
blood. But he was gone. I was yet rushing towards 
the door, when Joshua presented himself, having just 
returned from a professional call. “ Ay I ay! what’s 
this,” he began. “ Sam Toom, the wretch!” I foam- 
ingly ejaculated. “ Ah,” he responded, becoming 
very gloomy in an instant, and said nothing more. 
“ What shall I do ?” I cried, seeing that I could take 
no revenge. “ Kill him. Kill him,” replied Joshua, 
the veins standing out like cords on his forehead. 
The next moment he remarked, “ I didn’t mean that, 
Deacon. Don’t shed blood.” 

I was greatly agitated, and it was several hours 
before I regained my mental equilibrium. 

Such was the event; and it prepared me to appre¬ 
ciate what followed. 

The promised day came. It was Monday—the 
school having closed on Saturday. At the appointed 
hour—three in the afternoon —I went. I passed 


travellers’ entertainment. 2T3 

tlirongli tlie same process that I had before, only that 
I introduced myself to the bland principal, who intro¬ 
duced me to the manly-looking with spectacles. 
“Sir?” said she when I inquired for Fanny. I 
repeated. “Frances is no longer under my imme¬ 
diate supervision,” she informed me with admirable 
accentuation. That I knew; but perhaps she could 
tell me where Fanny was, that I might see her. “ Sir ?” 
What a voice of thunder! I repeated more explicitly 
and emphatically. AYorse than ten thousand thunders 
was that voice to me, when she said—“ Frances is 
gone out to walk with an old acquaintance of hers. 
Toom I think was the name by which he was intro¬ 
duced to me. She will be in towards evening. 
Please to call again.” In other words—please to 
clear out. So I took her request, at least, and went 
away, away from the house, from the heavenly 
dream that had so long made me happy—away down, 
down. Oh, the blackness of darkness! the worse 
than sulphureous depths into which I was plunged! 

It would be but mockery to attempt a description 
of my feelings during the rest of that afternoon and 
evening—all that night, in fact, for I did not sleep. 
Jealousy and hate in all their buruing fury, tore me 


274 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


as vultures would have torn. At one moment Fanny 
would appear to me a ruined creature, fascinated by 
the remorseless serpent.—The next moment she would 
appear a deceitful hag, hateful beyond expression. 
Toom—I could not think of him—it was too frenzy in g. 

It was a dreadful tumult all through the lono: 
night; and in the morning I showed traces of it 
too plainly to attempt concealment. I told Joshua 
about it—^keeping nothing back. His only reply was 
“Wait, Let time prove.” But that was a branch 
of practical philosophy which I had not then come 
to; accordingly I settled my mind at once, or tried 
to,—coming after several hours reflection, to the con¬ 
clusion, that Fanny was the one to blame—that she 
had maliciously deceived and wronged me. And 
with this conclusion, I settled down quite stolidly, 
feasting upon my future revenge, which was to com¬ 
mence with a full disclosure to Cynthia, accompanied 
with appropriate reflections—intended, you know, for 
Fanny’s perusal, as she would be at home. 

Having thus settled my plan, I was prepared to 
dismiss the subject, which was not easily done—was 
not done at all, in fact. I directly found that when 
not actively employed at something else pleasingly 


TEAVELLEKS ENTERTAINMENT. 


275 


interesting, my mind wonld recur in spite of me to 
the unhappy event. iN’either would my thirst for 
vengeance allow me to rest. The scathing epistle 
was elaborately inscribed with many tremendous 
gushes of feeling indicated by gnashings of teeth and 
smitings with the clenched hand. Some mry bitter 
sentences were penned, and underscored with three 
and some with four lines; and all, being duly com¬ 
plete, was sent. 

After this fiery transaction I was more at rest, yet 
had a secret panting for an answer. I was sure of 
getting one. I was sure Cynthia would sympathize 
with me, and hasten to make it known. I waited, 
waited. I^o letter came for a long time. I received 
one from my mother first,—then some time after—in 
all more than four weeks from the sending of mine— 
one from Cynthia, in which not the slightest allusion 
was made to the interesting theme. She stated 
casually that my old friend Fanny was in feeble 
health, and would not probably return to her school, 
and stated in postscript that S. Toom was at home, 
dangerously sick. She had received my letter, for 
she acknowledged it. “Let ’em die together, and 
Cynthia "^ith ’em, confound her,” said I, pinching 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 

the innocent letter, and flapping it against the r< 
table. I was alone in my misery. My own dear 
sister was willing to sacrifice her only brother, and 
encourage a deluded girl—so I viewed it just then— 
to utter destruction. Who was ever so unhappy as I 
was then ? Yet I had consolations. I took hold of 
my studies vigorously, and they diverted me. I 
leaned more on Joshua, though I didn’t mention the 
subject to him—and he diverted me. I learned to 
laugh at the frequent musical catastrophes which 
transpired in the office, and they diverted me 
With all, I had after a few days only an hour or so 
now and then, of dismal thoughts. Thus the summei 
passed slowly on, even to the end, and autumn com 
menced. In the meantime I had received several 
letters from home, from which I gathered two impor¬ 
tant facts: that Yanny, though well, would no more 
come back to school; and that Samuel had recovered 
and left the place. 

When the leaves began to fall, I took it into my 
head to go home and make a visit. Joshua approved 
of my intention, and I set out early one quiet 
morning, and after a very pleasant journey, canje, 
just at dark, into thp old village. J t];ere joined 


TEAVELLEES’ ENTEETAINMENT. 277 

by my father, and went home to the old honse. As 
we came to the gate, my mother, Cynthia, and— 
Fanny, stood there to welcome me. Fanny kept 
back at first — ay, she remembered my letter, 1 
thought; but in the gush of joy which prevailed, I 
left that out of mind, and greeted her cordially. 
Her hand trembled as I held it, and her voice 
trembled as she asked me, a minute afterwards, 
gratuitously, if I was well. I had those things to 
think of that night before I slept. 

My visit was to be two weeks in length, and 
I went at it systematically. The weather was 
pleasant, and when tired with conversation in the 
house I wandered out, dreamily renewing the innu¬ 
merable associations which sprang as echoes from 
every haunt. I did not tire of these ; but there was 
a sense of dissatisfaction attending them, the source 
of which I was several days finding out. Fanny 
was, and yet was not, in everything. I knew it at 
last, and then everything seemed to reproach me. I 
remembered her manner the evening that I came 
home. I remembered what I thought and how I felt 
when I was in my room that night, and all was still. 
I remembered these things one quiet, hazy after* 


278 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


noon, sitting at the window of Cynthia’s room, 
looking out towards Mr. Cline’s house. I saw Fanny 
sitting at the parlor window—at least I thought it 
was she—and at once I had a strong impulse to go 
and visit her. I was sure—very sure she wanted to 
see me, and with a decision as sudden as the impulse 
I determined to go. 

It was a most beautiful afternoon, and I strove to 
realize it more fully as I went along. I went slowly 
through the gate, gathering internal composure by 
gazing around in a general way, and sauntered up to 
the window. It was Fanny sitting there, and she 
was alone. She requested me to walk in. But I pre¬ 
ferred standing outside, so she leaned slightly out of 
the window, and we talked there together quietly for 
a while about nothing in particular. She was very 
calm and earnest in her manner, and looked at my 
lips and not at my eyes when I spoke. I noticed this, 
and her earnestness as something unusual, and I 
began to feel a dearth of items to talk about. A lit¬ 
tle fountain (pent) sprung loose in my heart. I heard 
what she said—the sound of her voice—not much 
more, for I was thinking—I could not help thinking 
—of the evening of the pic-nic. The tone of her 


' TEAVELLERS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 279 

voice was the same as then—more tenderly melodi¬ 
ous. That fountain gushed fresher and fuller in my 
heart, and I felt more barren of items. I became 
quite absent, and did not hear a question which she 
casually asked me. Ahasuerus I” Oh, my name! 
how sweetly spoken ! The fountain was becoming a 
tide. ‘‘Fanny!” I returned. “Come in, Ahasue- 
rus,” she said in the same tone ; “ thou must be tired 
standing.” 

I was not tired, but I went in. She bade me bo 
seated on the settee, while she took the rocking-chair, 
a little distance off. 

“ Didst thou not ask me something just before I 
came in?” I inquired, feeling I must make some 
remark. 

“ I don’t mind, now,” she replied, and for several 
minutes nothing was said. 

There was something painful on her mind—some¬ 
thing that sought utterance, yet was vigorously kept 
back. 

“Why dost thou look so sad?” I inquired, pain¬ 
fully moved, myself. 

“ Do not ask me,” she replied. Then, after a few 
moments, continued with a quivering voice, “I have 
luffered ”- 


280 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


“On my”-account, I was going to say, but 1 

swallowed it, feeling that I need not ask, for it was 
so. Ay, I knew it. She was weeping. 

“ Dear Fanny!” 

It was the first time, and I was startled at my rash¬ 
ness. But the tide had become an ocean, and bore 
me resistlessly. 1 arose and approached her. “ My 
dear Fanny, thou hast suffered by my folly. I am a 
fool, a detestable fool! I have been a fool all my 
days, Fanny!” 

“ Don’t talk so, Ahasuerus. Thou art not bad. I 
am bad. But I can’t help it.” 

I took a chair and sat down beside her—agitated 
very much. I tried to say several things before 1 said 
anything. Finally,—she had ceased weeping, and 
was looking dreamily away out of the open window 
—I said, sighed, uttered some way—it was like jump¬ 
ing off a precipice into a bank of tinted clouds— 
yieldingly I gave it forth, casting all upon the flam¬ 
ing die, “ Fanny, my angel!”—a sigh bore the rest— 
“ dost thou love me ?” 

Her hand was upon mine. She turned her face 
gently towards mine. I bent towards her. She 
leaned towards me. Our lips met—our souls met in 
one long draught of frenzying sweetness. 



travellers’ entertainment. 


281 


Unexpectedly as this whole scene had developed 
itself, I realized it fully in all its vital relations to me. 
The long-coveted, long-dreamed of treasure was mine, 
mine. I called her mine, holding her in my embrace 
—we were then sitting on the sofa. “ Yes, Ahasue- 
rus, thine—for ever.” How it thrilled me ! that word 
“ for ever,” spoken so earnestly, as she looked up into 
my face—into my eyes, now—deep into my soul. 
"VVe remained silent awhile. Suddenly a dark mem¬ 
ory touched me as with shadowy fingers. Samuel. 
I uttered the name almost involuntarily, so vivid was 
the remembrance. 

‘‘Don’t speak of him, he’s bad—a bad young 
man,” she said. After a few moments she resumed, 
“ He’s unhappy, too. I will show thee something he 
wrote to me last summer.” She arose and went into 
another room, coming back soon with a letter in her 
hand. She gave it to me, telling me to read and 
then destroy it. She had only kept it for me. I 
read it eagerly, trembling as I read, for I saw therein 
more than ever the exceeding subtlety and power 
he possessed. And I saw, too, that it was not all an 
ingenious play of thoughts. There was true passion 
in it—burning, deep, and that developed his mental 


282 GREEN MOUNTAIN 

resources—might develop them more ! I felt a chill 
in my blood when I had finished the perusal, as 
though I had been handling a serpent. 

“Dost thou not think he is unhappy?” Fanny 
inquired, when she saw I was done. 

I could not say what I wanted to, so I made no 
reply. 

“ He has been bad to thee, I know,” she remarked, 
and there was something unpleasant to me in her 
manner. I coolly asked, “ How ?” In reply she 
entered upon a narration of the event which had 
given me such poignant misery. Thus it was. She 
had never received a note from me while at school. 
Samuel had come there to the institution with a 
young gentleman and lady of his acquaintance, and 
begged her to gr with him and them to see a floral 
exhibition, not far off. She had accompanied them, 
and so the unhappy incident had come to pass. 

“ Scoundrel!” I could not restrain myself from 
saying. 

“Yes, I know he is bad. We will not say any¬ 
thing more about him.” 

The sun was down, and the sky overcast thickly, 
darkly, as I walked home that evening. With all 


TRAVELLEES’ ENTERTAINMENT. 283 

the sweet remembrance of the afternoon, I was not 
happy. 

Tlie following week I returned to Harrisburg, and 
resumed my studies, immeasurably more buoyant in 
soul, more vigorous in intellect, than I bad left tbern. 
Tbe future, bow strangely altered from tbe dark and 
doubtful to tbe glorious and certain! There was a 
cloud, but it was a cloud on the horizon, and did 
not obscure tbe day. 

The moaning autumn found no echo in my heart, 
nor did tbe blustering winter, that came on speedily, 
congeal my high ardor. My twilight hours were 
now consumed to a purpose. I committed my 
gorgeous fancies, my burning thoughts, the voice of 
my high hopes, to paper; and as the frail bulk accu¬ 
mulated, I sent it away from time to time, to the 
object upon which they all centered. Kesponses 
came, at intervals—far too long intervals in my 
judgment—tender, precious responses, like that 
answer she gave when I bent towards her and she 
leaned towards me, only angels witnessing. 

Months passed on. The spring came ; the summer 
—a year went on its way. I again visited home, 
staying there a month. I saw Fanny twice—^had two 


284 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


long interviews with her. At the close of the second, 
and just as I was leaving her, she gave me two 
letters, bidding me, as she had at another time, to 
read, and then destroy them. I read them a few 
hours after, and with a kind of dread consigned them 
to flames. They burnt as though alive, and their 
very ashes, quivering upon the coals, appeared as 
flendish ghosts, vengeful at the destruction. Such 
passion as there was in those letters, so fiery in its 
voice, so earnest, even in its subtlety,—it seemed in 
burning them, I was burning the soul that had given 
them being. Poor Samuel! He was unhappy. 
What might that unhappiness, heightened into des¬ 
pair, not do ? I could not dwell upon it. 

Again I was at my studies, rapidly progressing in 
rudimentary acquirement. Another year passed. 
The stilts of great boyhood were wearing off, and 
I was getting to be a man. My beard—a shadow 
cast before—made a modest deMt^ attesting to my 
having achieved my growth, as well as to the proxi¬ 
mity of manhood; and my imagination, fired with 
the indication, led me, as usual, prematurely into the 
estate. But it did no harm. I was not of a dispo¬ 
sition to take undue advantages of any position, real 


TEAVELLERS ENTERTAINMENT. 


285 


or supposed, and lienee clierished my new-blown dig¬ 
nity rather in secret. 

I had in fact grown much older when I visited 
home this time ; but I found the year had been quite 
general in its effect. My father and mother looked 
older, and Cynthia, too—a maiden still. Fanny was 
not older, but riper, less girlish. It was during this 
visit that I revealed to Cynthia the relation I sus¬ 
tained to Fanny—revealed it, and found it was an old 
fact to her! This time, too, I talked more of practi¬ 
cal affairs with my adored; speaking of the time 
when she should be my wife, and we should go out 
hand in hand to meet the rough world. Her reply 
was like the first. What had words to do with it ? 

My studies were resumed again, and time passed 
smoothly, swiftly. 

You may wonder I did not again meet with Sam¬ 
uel. He was not in Harrisburg. He was in Boston 
—had gone there the autumn after his illness, and up 
to this time had not been back. So Cynthia had told 
me at my last visit, and she had gathered her inform¬ 
ation from a conversation between old Abel and my 
father, which she had overheard. He had not writ- 
ten to Fanny during the year past, which I was more 


286 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN 


happy to know, than I would have been willing to 
acknowledge. The only cloud had gone out of my sky. 

Time passed smoothly, swiftly. Another year 
came round. I did not make my annual visit, for at 
the usual season I was particularly engaged, and 
afterwards I thought I would wait till spring. I felt 
the need of it less for having seen all our folks 
at the city, whither they had come mainly to visit 
Joshua, they said, and scold him for not having ful¬ 
filled his promise of coming out there. Joshua was 
thunderstruck at the recollection of his promise; but 
directly took refuge under the sophistry that he had 
not promised to come in pei*son, and he hoped they 
had found no fault with his proxy—meaning me. 
Yet he concluded finally with a direct pledge that 
he would be with them for a season, about one 
year from that time. 

Spring came ; but I did not go then. Joshua was 
going in the autumn ; I was very busy; six months 
would finish my course, and then I could remain at 
home half a year if I wished; a long absence would 
only add sweetness to the meeting. Such were the 
considerations which determined me not to. go. But 
I repented me soon after; for early in the summer I 


TEAVELLEES’ ENTEETAINMENT. 287 

received a letter from Cynthia, stating, among other 
facts of interest, that Samuel had been there, remain¬ 
ing more than three weeks, and had called twice on 
Fanny ; and to heighten the effect of this detestable 
intelligence, I read about the same time a long letter 
from Fanny herself, in which I found no allusion to 
Samuel nor his visits. I was wretchedly impatient. 
But the die was cast. 

At last the appointed time arrived, and we—Joshua 
and I—went. It was late in the season—almost win¬ 
ter; but we had a pleasant journey, rich in small 
incident, turned to account. Joshua was in the best 
of good humors all day ; and the flow was only fresh¬ 
ened on our coming to the old, familiar mansion. 
Though it was past ten o’clock when we arrived, and 
we called the inmates out of warm beds, there was 
no lack of cordiality, and we all sat up, nor was bed 
alluded to till nearly three in the morning. 

I was not long in making my appearance before the 
idol of my heart. It was the third day, and I was with 
her several hours—blessed hours, without bitterness. 
She told me about Samuel in such a way that I was 
satisfied witli her; but my old dread was no way 
lessened. Ah! no. 


288 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


I have thus hurried over several years of my life— 
leaving out much that I would like to have told—in 
order that I may dwell more minutely upon what fol¬ 
lowed. Bear with me awhile longer, and I will relate 
it to you. I had been at home two weeks, perhaps a 
lay or two more, when one afternoon, on returning 
i rom a short excursion by myself, I found the family, 
vith Joshua, gathered around the sitting-room fire, 
apparently in a close consultation, which I interrupted 
Dy my entrance. Discovering that they would not 
resume while I was present, I went out again. In 
about an hour I returned and was immediately beset 
by Joshua. 

‘‘Young Deacon Ahasuerus Munn, sir. In con¬ 
clave it has been considered, in conclave it has been 
decided; amen. Listen! The treasures of your native 
land have been lavished upon you. The most distin¬ 
guished and dishonored representative of the Science 
to which you have devoted yourself—meaning the 
sp eaker—has exhausted his resources upon you. Others 
less dishonored, have been exhausted in rendering 
assistance, and now it is finished. In view of these facts, 
sir, it has been decided in conclave that—now. Dea¬ 
con, it is a serious matter, more serious than it will at 


TIIAYELLEES’ ENTERTAINMENT. 


289 


first appear to you, and very serious to the rest of 
us, and we have a secret hope you will not consent. 
It is .nothing more nor less than to have you go 
to Europe, and see if you can learn something that 
you would not be likely to learn here. I know you 
are young; but if you wait till you are married, you 
never will go, and so will end another hope of mine. 
How say yes, or no, or nothing, eh? How do you 
like the idea ?” 

To Europe! The idea was as unexpected as it was 
overwhelming, and I laughed incredulously. 

“Ho forsaken babes were ever more sincere in their 
vocal demands than we are in ours,” said Joshua. 
“Will you go, or not?” 

“ You press rather close,” said I in reply. “You” 
—I had fallen into a temporary habit of modern 
address, being so much with Joshua—“ had no need 
of asking my consent to this thing. You might with 
the utmost safety presupposed it.” 

“ So I feared,” observed Joshua. “ And now let 
us drop the subject for the present.” 

The first thing after getting accustomed to the 
glorious idea, was to communicate it to Fanny, of 
course. Before I did it, however, the time of departure 
13 


290 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN 


had been fixed, and sundry other general arrange* 
ments had been made. I was to start on the first of 
April following, and was to remain one year. 1 
broke the intelligence—^literally smashed it—to Fanny 
—^for I was too full to allow circumlocution. She 
received it quite calmly at first, but directly after 
wards exhibited more feeling than I had anticipated. 
It seemed to crush her exceedingly. It was not ordi¬ 
nary grief so much as deep dread that possessed her. 
I thought it unreasonable, and told her so—gently. 
She made no reply, and I regretted my remark, see¬ 
ing that it deepened her depression, and sought to 
divert her by dwelling upon the advantages I should 
reap from the tour; the pleasure I should derive 5 
the joy of the future meeting after which there would 
be no separation till death—dwelling emphatically 
upon the short time I should be gone. “ Only a year,” 
I concluded, trying to look encouraging, not altogether 
with success, I fear, for her unaccountable feeling 
had begun to affect me slightly. I felt the myste¬ 
rious infiuence more when she said in reply, looking 
sorrowfully into my face—there was terror, too, in the 
look—and speaking as though partly to herself: “ A 

year is a great while—a great while. Till thou come 


TRAYELLERS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 291 

back? Yes; I shall live. , I feel strangely. I know 
thou wilt come back. I don’t know why I feel so. 
If I could die when thou goest away. I would rather 
die. O, Ahasuerus, I am so unhappy!” 

I was very unhappy myself after she said this, and 
for the moment had more than half a thought of 
revoking my determination. Yet when I went home, 
and took counsel of my better judgment, I resolved 
to treat the strange exhibition as a trifle which she 
would join with me in laughing at on some future day. 
In this, I succeeded until I saw her again in private. 
It was the day after Joshua’s departure—which hap¬ 
pened at the expiration of six very pleasant weeks— 
and I had a long interview with her—^painful, and 
discouraging. She saw that her state of mind was a 
source of unhappiness to me, and promised not to 
indulge in it. I left her with that promise upon her 
lips. 

When I saw her again, some time afterwards, she 
was more cheerful, yet I could plainly see it was 
the cheerfulness of resignation rather than of hope. 
What made her act so strangely ? I asked her seri¬ 
ously, in an investigating spirit. But she could only 
tell me she felt so. I was perplexed and saddened 


292 


GEEEN MOENTAIN 


by it. If she had shed a flood of tears now and 
then, wJflle talking about the expected separation— 
like a woman, and naturally, I should have enjoyed 
such conversations as alluded to it, as a sweet luxury. 
As it was, I avoided them. I saw she could not help 
her sentiment, and 1 ceased to blame her, even in my 
heart; but it made me melancholy, and more than 
once my resolution was seriously shaken. I began in 
a general way to dread the approaching time of 
departure, and if it had been fixed three months later 
I am quite confident I should not have gone. 

As the day came to be near at hand, however, my 
ambition and hopes were quickened, so much so 
that when the parting hour came, I bore myself like 
a man. She did not weep, even when I held her in 
my arms and impressed the last farewell kiss, but 
stood shrinkingly, with downcast eyes, saying—once 
only—in a tone like the dying tremor of a harp moved 
by the wind—“Good-by!” I knew that tone was 
from a soul wrung with deepest anguish, clouded 
with despair—my own soul told it me. But Europe 
was before me. The fondest hope of youthful imagi¬ 
nation was to be gratified. Should I falter because 
of the superstitions of an over-loving heart? In 


travellers’ entertainment. 293 

this light I considered it, and walked boldly 
away. 

It had been “ in conclave decided” that my father 
and Joshua should accompany me as far as Philadel¬ 
phia, hence the parting from home was not so pain¬ 
ful as it would otherwise have been—to me ; to those 
who remained there was no alleviation. They were 
all there, Delia and her family, too, standing at the 
old front gate, that morning when I returned from 
saying good-by to Fanny. The carriage was in 
readiness. They all knew where I had been, yet 
none alluded to it. They were all weeping, little 
Isaac, too, this time. Each embraced me fervently, 
saying, “ God bless thee!” each in turn, and the 
painful ceremony was over. My father was in the 
carriage, sitting upright very firmly, and looking 
afar off while this was being done, taking apparently 
no note of surrounding circumstances, until I 
mounted to his side; then he coolly asked me if I 
was ready, and upon my replying in the affirmative, 
he uttered some severe sounds to the horses, which 
they obeyed promptly, and in a few minutes we were 
out of sight. 

At the village we left the carriage, and taking the 


294 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN 


public conveyance went on to Harrisburg. There we 
were joined by Joshua, and without delay proceeded 
on our journey towards Philadelphia. Our wayfaring 
experience was pretty much like others’ on similar 
routes, being varied with partaking of mixed diet in 
a mixed company, and having our pockets divested 
of large coins for scant equivalents; and with two or 
three incidents such as a horse falling and breaking 
his leg, and a drunken driver falling off his box, and 
breaking the third commandment—^pleasant varia¬ 
tions when we could have no other, and helping to 
shorten the time, which was long enough, but at 
length came to an end with our entrance into the 
City of Friends—“of Brotherly Love,” remarked 
Joshua ; “so named in allusion to the early settlers, 
I suppose.” It was Joshua’s first pleasantry since we 
had set out, and it was quite refreshing. He had all 
the way been very solemn, discoursing, when he said 
anything, upon things which belong to the dark side 
of life. 

Here I was to separate from the last landmarks of 
the old social field, and it came to pass with much 
poignant grief. Yet, as there was a general effort at 
self-restraint among us, the ceremony had something 


TRAVELLERS ENTERTAINMENT. 


295 


encouraging in it, and I passed away from their sight 
upon my distant journey, gathering fresh hopes every 
hour. 

At New York I took passage on a merchantman, 
which set sail the next day after I went on board. 

The first four-and-twenty hours were very pleasant, 
and I enjoyed myself so much, that I thought a life 
on the sea must be very desirable. My impressions, 
however, respecting sea life, were considerably 
changed on the third day, and continued changed. 
The slimy serpent, sea-sickness—the only genuine Sea 
Serpent—commenced its desolating ravages in my 
defenseless interior, and for four weeks and one day I 
was as one overthrown—^mournfully cast down. 
Mighty Slough of Despond the Ocean was to me, 
indeed; yet I came out at last on the other side. 
Almost on all-fours—I needed half-a-dozen legs—I 
crawled upon the pier at Havre. “ If such is Sea, I 
am content—albeit without content,” I observed in 
the fii’st assurance of solid footing, to a gentle^ 
man of glossy exterior, unmindful of the circumstance 
at the building of a certain tower. He smiled— 
because I did, I suppose, and executed an amazingly 
graceful bow, coming forward, and with several 


296 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


more faultless bows of different degrees of pro¬ 
fundity, and not less tlian lialf-a-dozen score of false 
motions in half a score of seconds, communicated at 
once two things—his desire to render me infinite ser¬ 
vice, and my first impression of an actual, living 
Frenchman. I thanked him in the best French I could 
muster—which was not so very bad, as I had spent the 
leisure of more than a year instructing myself in the 
language—declining his services, and he retreated; 
but the impression remained—remains unto this day 
—to my mind, the whole French nation in small. 

From Havre I proceeded directly to Paris. “ Three 
months in Paris,” I found written by Joshua in my 
pocket-memorandum. Accordingly I quartered 
myself deliberately, selecting the most eligible hotel 
and fixings, prudent regard of course being paid to 
my pecuniary resources. 

I was not long in discovering that Paris was a 
large and thriving place—a great city ; in fact, over¬ 
grown, too large to be comprehended even by the 
oldest inhabitant. Everything known in the known 
world, I had reason to believe, could be found thero 
—from the lusty orang-outang down to a Franciscan 
monk, and from a French.dandy the other way to an 


travellers’ entertainment. 297 

Arnerican traveller—inclusive of all that they or 
their ancestors ever produced. It is true that during 
the three months I staid there, I never sought in 
vain for anything—except a letter from home. I was 
not idle in the pursuit of medical and pathological 
facts. Though necessarily desultory, I felt that my 
time was very profitably spent, and 1 had only to regret 
it was not three years, instead of three months, I 
could pass there. But I must go the round in one 
year, therefore I obeyed the directions which Joshua 
had inscribed, and went to Munich. There I remained 
six months, making very creditable progress. At 
Munich I received two letters—one from Cynthia 
and one from Fanny; full of love, both of them, yet 
how different! The same mysterious sentiment 
clung to Fanny, I could perceive, though she wrote 
in a strain of encouragement and hope. I answered 
them both elaborately, assuring Fanny, with a play¬ 
ful allusion to her unnatural solicitude, that I would 
soon be at home, and that I hoped she would join in 
the great laugh at her folly. 

“Six months in Munich, three months in London, 
and then-a good long life at home,” was the bal¬ 

ance of Joshua’s entry. I returned to Paris, intend- 


298 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


ing from there to go to London. On the day of my 
arrival I fell in with an American, a medical student 
like myself. There was a similarity of temper and 
views, as well as ambition, which drew us together. 
We became, at once, warm friends. He had been 
some time in Paris, and was about starting for Berlin, 
and importuned me to accompany him, saying it 
W’ould hinder me but a short time, and I would not 
lose by it. In an evil hour I consented to go with 
him. 

The day before we left Paris, as I was walking 
along one of the principal business streets, somewhat 
heavy of heart, for I was not entirely satisfied with 
my promise,—perhaps a shadow from the future was 
upon me,—I was accosted by name. I did not at 
first recognize the voice, nor amongst the crowd see 
its source either—“ Munn, Doctor Munn ! Dang it 
all! you know me. Old friend Toom—Sam Toom,” 
and out he came strongly individualized upon my 
vision:—out, and up to me, and took my hand in 
such an unreservedly friendly manner that I actually 
felt glad to see him, and told him so. “ Away out 
in Paris here, such an eternal, watery distance from 
home. I'll be danged if it don’t do my heart good ” 


travellers' entertainment. 


299 


—so mucli friendly feeling ! — my heart warmed 
towards him every moment. I was about speaking. 
“ I suppose,” he interrupted you’d like to hear 
from the old homestead, and so forth. I was there 
two months ago this day. Have you heard since 
He saw by the expression of my face—how quick he 
could read faces through his sleepy-looking eyes !— • 
that I had not, and, hardly pausing, concluded, 
“ They were all well, and spoke of you.” He held 
my hand all this time, and I felt I was getting a new 
impression of his character. He knew it, I believe, 
and helped it on by saying rather abruptly— 
Friend Ahasuerus, I am different from what I used 
to be. I have sown all my wild grain, deposited 
it deep in the earth. I’ve done all the mischief I’m 
going to do in this world. Henceforward a decent 
man must answer to the name Samuel Toom.” I 
believed him. We talked of several interesting 
matters after that, standing there together an hour or 
more. He told me he was there with his employer 
on business. He inquired particularly about my 
intended movements, and on my expressing a reluc¬ 
tance towards going to Berlin, he urged me with 
considerable vehemence to go. At last our convers?^- 


300 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


tion came to an end, he asking me, at parting, if I 
wished to send anything home, as he was going 
directly there on his return to America. 

Pie came to my lodgings that night, and I 
entrusted to him a brief communication directed to 
Joshua, informing him therein of my change of route, 
and of the probable delay it would occasion me,— 
stating, also, that I should not write again until I 
should reach London. 

‘‘ You leave to-morrow, do you observed Samuel 
at the door, as he was going away—it was the third 
time he had made the observation since I had clearly 
informed him of my intention. ‘‘ Yes,” said I rather 
emphatically, for there was something in his coun¬ 
tenance and manner that irritated me. I checked 
myself instantly, however, ashamed of my irritation, 
and was going to offer some parting remark in a 
modulated tone ; but he was gone. 

“ Did you entrust to him anything valuable ?” 
asked my friend, who had been present during the 
interview. I shook my head, asking in turn why he 
inquired. Instead of telling me the reason, he spoke 
of something else, and I thought no more then of the 
matter, 


TEAVELLEKS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 301 

The next day we left for Berlin. At the first 
stopping-place I took up the morning paper to while 
away a few minutes during change of horses, and, as 
I ran over the local items, discovered the following: 

“ Casualty. —We learn that yesterday afternoon a young medical 

student, while assisting in dissection at-Hospital, accidentally 

cut one of his fingers. Intense pain and swelling immediately 
ensued, which increased rapidly in spite of all the remedies used, 
and about ten o’clock he died in excruciating agonies. His name, 
as we understand, was Ahasuerus Munn, an American, in Paris to 
complete his studies.” 

‘‘ Singular coincidence of name and pursuit,” I 
observed to my companion. 

“ Indeed, I think it is,” he replied, and we laughed 
at it. 

“ Our journey was long, longer than I had anti¬ 
cipated, yet pleasant. The country we passed 
through is world-renowned, and between my friend 
and myself there was historic lore enough to give 
deep interest to much that we saw. 

In Berlin I found so much to give me pleasure and 
intellectual profit, that instead of two months—the 
time I had prospectively allowed for my sojourn— 
nearly three were gone before I was ready to depart. 

Thus far forhme had smiled. Thus far my future 


302 


GKEEN MOUNTAIN 


had grown brighter and brighter—how benign ! how 
inspiring! Now it was suddenly darkened. On the 
eve of departure from Berlin I was taken very ill. 
For several weeks my life was despaired of. During 
this illness my new friend showed by his conduct, 
that I had not been deceived in him. Through his 
unwearied attentions—and measurably through his 
skill, I was rescued from the grave. 

One day, during my convalescence, a German 
gazette was brought to me that I might amuse 
myself in reading. Almost the first paragraph I 
read, contained the startling intelligence that the 
United States of America had declared war against 
Great Britain. The Last War, you understand. It 
was bitter intelligence to me. Had I gone to London, 
as Joshua had directed, I might then have been on 
my way home under safe conduct. Now I had a 

desperate gauntlet to run. If unsuccessful-O, my 

God! I could not bear the dreadful thought. There 
was something more than hope deferred that made 
the conjecture so hideous. A vague suspicion was in 
my mind—too vague, if not too dreadful, for utterance. 

As soon as I was able to travel, I was impatient to 
be on my way home. My fi lend consented to accom- 



TEAVELLEKS’ ENTEETAINMENT. 303 

pany me as far as Paris, and together we thitherward 
directed our course. We arrived at that city in safety, 
where I parted, with deep regret, from my companion, 
and went immediately to Havre. I there found an 
American vessel—an armed brig—^lying in port for 
refit. She was to sail in a few days for Hew York, 
and with gratitude to Heaven, and renewed hope, I 
took passage in her. Though stimulated for a time 
with the incident of finding an American vessel with¬ 
out delay, that was going directly home, a strange 
uneasiness began to haunt me—deepening into melan¬ 
choly. It was a great distance. The ocean swarmed 
with hostile fleets. I could not be delayed—^yet I 
might be. There was a multitude of adverse chances. 
My depression and anxiety were agonizing. 

Our voyage was pleasant —very pleasant—for many 
days. We were almost home. The load was light¬ 
ening. 

One evening—according to reckoning, we were five 
days fair sailing from Hew York—as the sun went 
down, a large vessel under full sail, appeared upon 
the western horizon. Hitherto we had encounterd 
friends only, and therefore the stranger, though con¬ 
templated with distrust, did not beget much anxiety. 


304 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


Before dark, it was announced by the commander tnat 
the stranger was making a tack, and that her course 
lay directly towards us. Early in the evening the 
wind ceased, and we were all night becalmed. Suffi¬ 
cient anxiety remained in my mind to call me at 
break of day on deck, where I found considerable 
excitement prevailing. The wind had sprung up 
again towards morning, and every sail was set. 

“ "What is the trouble I asked of the first mate, 
who was passing hurriedly, with a drawn sword in 
his hand. He answered by pointing astern out upon 
the sea. I looked, and to my deep dismay saw, not 
more than a mile distant, a huge man of war, bearing 
directly down upon us. 

I will not detail to you what happened—only say¬ 
ing that on our part it was a hopeless race. In 
less than two hours we were overtaken, and after 
a short and terrific struggle were boarded. In my 
despair I fought—fought like a madman. With the 
death of nearly three-fourths of our company, the 
sanguine deed was accomplished—the brig was taken, 
and those of us who had been secured alive, were 
thrust into the hold of the victor. 

We were taken to Barbadoes. On the way I was 


travellers’ entertainment. 305 

not without hope; but when we amved there, and I 
was cast into a deep dungeon, and the massive door, 
w^hich mocked at the idea of escape, was closed and 
bolted upon me, I sank to the cold, stone floor, 
longing for immediate death—so hopeless. 

It may seem strange that I was in such utter 
despair. It is true that to be imprisoned, and that, 
too, far from the ministrations of loving ones, was 
dreadful, but I knew the war could not long continue, 
not many years at most, and when that should end, I 
would be free—perhaps before. Yet these I did not 
think of. I wanted freedom then, then—or never! 
The dark suspicion to which I have before alluded, 
had deepened, within the last few days, into belief. 
Samuel had dealt treacherously by me—would deal 
treacherously to the sacrifice of my long-cherished, 
most precious hopes. How clearly I saw it! How 
bitterly did I curse myself! Infatuated wretch! stu¬ 
pidly blind! Except the short letter I had entrusted 
to him, I had not written home since leaving Munich. 
That letter would not be delivered—ay, I knew it. 
Why did I not return to Paris, after reading that 
local item—question the editor—know it was not vil¬ 
lainy—before I went on. Stupid fool! laughing at it 


306 GREEN MOUNTAIN 

as a joke!—laughing at the dagger which was to 
enter my heart! I saw, or thought I saw, the rash, 
yet fiendish machination, in all its subtlety. It drove 
me deeper into despair—if such could he—the more 
I refiected upon it. My body gave way under the 
mental torture. A raging fever consumed me, and 
wildness was in my brain. They took me to the hos¬ 
pital. How they saved me I cannot conceive. My 
constitution had been already shattered, and I had a 
fixed determination to die—I demanded death. 

When I was again able to walk, I was taken back 
to the dungeon. Happily for me, though I did not 
so consider it then, I was furnished with a comfortable 
room, and was decently fcd. 

In the exhaustion of strength, I seemed to have less 
capacity for misery, and for a while experienced a 
sort of negative enjoyment. As comparative health 
returned, a deep melancholy, that had something of 
resignation in it, took possession of me. 

Slow months passed. I was as one in a dream. I 
lived only in the present. The future—a blackness 
from which hope shrank; the past—in sleep it came 
to me, as a nun might visit the haunts of early life. 
Only in sleep could I bear it. 


TKAVELLEKS’ ENTEETAINMENT. 807 

Could they but know that I still lived—that I would 
some day come to their loving embrace. They could 
not know. They believed me dead. They had rea¬ 
son so to believe. That reason might not have existed. 
Bitter consciousness! I could but curse myself. I 
have said I lived only in the present. There were 
shadows from the past—^such shadows!—came to me 
when I was not asleep. They came when hope would 
persuade me, and cast their mantle over my soul. 
“Samuel is unhappy.” “I know he has been bad 
to theeP Did that tender heart know what it 
revealed in these ? Had I known, I would have told 
her. But I only know they were grating sounds. 
How, in my agony, they were as shafts of burning 
iight. 

Sometimes I listened to the whisperings of Hope, 
when she told me all these dark fears were empty 
shadows—that the heart which had throbbed against 
my own, in the sweet ecstasy of requited love, still 
beat true to me—that the fiend would not prevail. 
When I so listened I was happy—^yea, happ;y. 

Yet it was all a dream—wild and dark—with these 
few gleams of light, like falling stars. 

The second autumn of my imprisonment was 


308 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN* 


gcmtly laying waste the earth, when one day a sealed 
note was put into my hand. I eagerly tore it open. 
It was my passport. I was free! I troubled not 
myself to know how I came by my release. I was 
free. That was enough. Free to go—where ? Home. 
I trembled—not with joy. “ Home” was no longer 
a word of enchantment. It conjured evil. I dreaded 
to go, yet could not stay. The wild, dark dream con¬ 
tinued. 

On the wide sea, beneath a kindly sun, and fanned 
by vivifying breezes, hope revived within me. When 
the shores of my native land opened mistily to my 
vision, and the sound of glad voices from hearts hop¬ 
ing- without reserve filled the air about me, I hoped 
with them, yet not without reserve, alas! 

We landed at Hew York. Without delay I went 
on to Philadelphia—thence to Harrisburg. I came 
to the last-named place early one evening, and being 
fatigued with rapid journeying, I put up for the night 
—at the old hotel, which had been like a second home 
to me. It had changed hands, as I saw immediatel;^ 
on my entrance. 

“ Does Doctor Hoyles stay here I asked—with 

what eagerness you may imagine—of the clerk. 


travellers’ entertainment. 309 

‘‘ Am not acquainted with the gentleman, sir. I 
think no such name is on the list, sir.” 

He looked. While he was looking, a middle-aged 
man, well dressed, and of easy bearing, accosted me. 

“Are you acquainted with Doctor Hoyles?” he 
said. 

“ I was, years ago,” I replied. 

“ So was I, many years ago.” 

“ Have you seen him lately ?” I inquired, hoping 
through him, perhaps, to learn Joshua’s place of stop¬ 
ping, as the clerk had just denied the presence of 
liis name upon the list. 

“ About two years ago I saw him last—an hour or 
so—at Kichmond, Yirginia. His health was not good, 
and he was suffering under some bereavement, that 
made him very melancholy.” 

“ Did he tell you the name of the friend he had 
lost ?” I asked, tears starting in my eyes—the haunt¬ 
ing conjecture that I had believed and disbelieved, 
fought against and shrunk before so long, must it yet 
bo true ? My brain swam with the fierce tumult of 
the instant. 

“ He did tell me the name,” said he, after a short 
effort at recollection; “ but for the lifo of me I can’t 


310 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


recall it now. A young man who had studied 
with him. Singular I can’t think of the name. Aha I 
useless. Died in Europe. Accidental death. He 
seemed to mourn very much, and was travelling in 
part to divert his mind.” 

It was true ! I had seen the rash machination in 
all its subtlety. Oh, the agony of that moment! 
I trembled, my breath was short, and my heart 
labored as in an overwhelming flood ! 

“You are not well,” remarked the gentleman, look¬ 
ing upon me with surprise and anxiety. 

Fearful struggle ! Yet but a moment! I replied 
with a calmness that astonished me—“ "What you 
have said interests me veiy much. That young 
man’s name was Munn.” 

“ Well, yes, I think it was. Munn ? Munn ? Yes, 
it was.” 

“And I am he !” 

“Indeed! False report, then. I’m glad of it—^I 
am so. It will do the old man’s heart good. He has 
had trouble in his day—scathing, corroding affliction 
—worse than death by fagot Oh, such days !—awful 
days I My young friend, we must go and visit the 
Doctor together, to-morrow. With one or two brief 


travellers’ ENTERTAINAfikT. 31 i 

exceptions, it is now more than twenty-five years 
since we have sat and wandered together in friendly 
intercourse, and I have come nearly five hundred 
miles in these troublous times on purpose to see him, 
and renew, for a while, at leisure, the broken thread 
—broken—ah I I will not think of it. 

In the morning the acquaintance of the previous 
evening joined me after breakfast, and we went down 
the street so familiar—familiar though changed— 
towards the old office. When we came to the door, I 
knocked. Ho answer. I was about to knock again, 
when I noticed to my great surprise that the old 
sign was gone, and a new one, with a strange name, 
occupied its place. He has retired from business, 
was my first thought. We should not find him in the 
city. Ho place more likely at which to meet him, 
than my father’s house. I expressed these to my 
companion, and he promptly agreed to accompany 
me home. The stage would not go out till after din¬ 
ner, I knew; and to pass the time, I proposed a walk 
about the city. 

It was a pleasant stroll, though to me melancholy. 
The darkness of my future—it had never been so 
dark before—contrasted with the distant, beaming 


312 


GREKN MOUNTAIN 


past, whicli every step brought up, weighed upon me, 
yet it was like the sway of mournful music, that peo 
pies the realm of oblivion. We were returning. 
The old grave-yard was at our right hand. As we 
came along to the gate, my companion stopped, tried 
it, found it unfastened, and as by common impulse, 
we walked in. 

“This place is not new to me, my friend,” 
remarked my companion, as he closed the gate, “ nor 
do I come here from idle curiosity. I did not want 
to come to this sacred spot until I had seen Joshua, 

that-but I could not resist. AWll you bear with 

my caprice and amuse yourself for a short time 
while I go to yonder corner ?” 

His voice was thick with emotion, and as he 
looked at me for my assent, I saw tears in his. eyes. 

I cheerfully complied with his request, and he 
went away towards the corner. Interested in bis 
movements, I looked after him. He drew near the 
c:^rner. Suddenly he stopped, lifting both hands as 
if in amazement. Then he turned and beckoned to 
me. I hurriedly obeyed his signal, and as I 
approached, saw that he was standing by a new- 
made grave, leaning on the marble slab at its head, 


travellers’ entertainment. 313 

and convulsed witli weeping. What! Oh, it could 
not be—it must not be. “ Died,” thus I read from 
the cold stone, mj heart and breath stilled with the 
heavy wave of anguish that is like death—“ on the 
17th of July, 1814, Joshua Koyles, aged fifty-five 
years and three months.” 

As a lurid flash it was, and then came darkness— 
blindness. Every faculty, every sense was benumbed. 
I should have sunk to the ground but for my com¬ 
panion’s timely assistance. 

It was several minutes before I recovered. When 
I did, my friend had ceased weeping, and holding my 
hand, he talked to me—told me there, as we sat 
together upon the hallowed earth, what in happier 
days I had so wished to know. Briefly he uttered 
it. “ My young friend, let us rejoice that he is gone. 
They are now together. You see another grave 
here, close by the side of this one. In that lie the 
remains of my only sister—once so full of life and 
hope. She was beautiful—a frail, spiritually beauti¬ 
ful creature, and to her natural gifts was added all 
that wealth could bestow. Joshua loved her—wor¬ 
shiped her. His youthful soul, noble above ten 
thousand, adored her as its high angel. There was a 
U 


314 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN 


young, proud woman lived in the same town—^Toom 
was the man she afterwards married. She is dead, 
now, I think. This woman loved Joshua, and sought 
to win him. In every attempt she failed, and then 
in a despair she sought revenge. Joshua and my 
sister were to be married. She contrived and execut 
ed a plot, dark and malicious almost beyond belief. 
She managed to persuade my sister that Joshua was 
false; she even went so far as to demonstrate by 
means of forged letters that he had pledged himself 
to her^ and had sealed the pledge with a criminal act. 
I was young then—a sailor, too, in distant seas. Had 
I been at home, it would have gone differently with 
them all, perhaps. My sister treated Joshua with 
scorn. The noble youth sought an explanation, but 
no opportunity was given. He left the place, and 
went—^no one knew where. For two years he wan¬ 
dered. What must those years not have been to 
him! In the meantime I returned. I learnt the 
facts. I knew Joshua, ay, too well not to know that 
he was innocent. I showed my sister that she had 
been deceived. She saw it plainly, and unspeakable 
anguish harrowed her night and day. Her health 
foi’sook her. Pulmonary consumption, to which she 


TKAYELLERS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 315 

was predisposed, took fatal hold. She was near the 
grave 'when Joshua returned—ghastly shadow of his 
former self. Tliey were reconciled. But the sun had 
set, and there would be no more day. In a few 
weeks my sister died—in Joshua’s arms, and he told 
her before she ceased to hear, just as she was passing 
from earth, that in heaven she should be his wife. 

For many months I was with him night and day. 
It seems to me no mortal could be more wretched 
than he was, and live. I used often to beg him to 
cease his wild lamentations, they so probed me from 
mere sympathy. Time wore it away, however, and 
before I left him, he could speak almost with calm¬ 
ness of the awful event. They are together, now, in 
heaven.” 

The stage was ready, and shaking hands with my 
new friend—he had now no need to go with me— 
I was soon on my way home—^liome, as one borne on 
a subterranean stream. I came to the village in the 
night, and walked on towards the old mansion. As 
I drew near, the wind moaned through the old forest 
—a voice! 

I wull not tell you, I cannot tell you, how they 
received me. A wild tumult of joy it was, almost too 


316 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


mucli for them to bear. But at length they grew 
calm ; and then we talked together. How did they 
get report of my death ? 1 knew, but yet I asked. 
Samuel had shown it them in a French gazette. 
What was his object—or had he any? A dismal, 
fleeting hope that he had had none, prompted my 
inquiry. He had an object. Tliey had never seen it 
before, and now thought it a rash, fool-hardy scheme 
of his. “Yet,” said my father, “he knew the politi¬ 
cal state of the country. He knew war was inevitable. 
It was a desperate chance, and he adopted it despe¬ 
rately, with hope that in the dangem of crossing the 
ocean, thee might fall a victim; or, hoping if thee 
came, to accomplish his purpose before. He had 
nothing to lose, and everything to gain.” 

How came my father to know so much about the 
scheme and its object? Something had publicly 
come to pass. What was it ? The question was in 
my heart, but I gave it not voice. I could not. 

Tlie next day, as I sat in Cynthia’s room, looking 
towards Mr. Cline’s—I had been talking of my 
adventures—Cynthia began to weep. 1 divined the 
cause. “ Tell me,” said I, passionately, “ dear sister, 
tell me. Do not reserve it. I must know the truth.” 


travellers’ ENTERTADOklENT. 317 

Oh, my brother!” she exclaimed, ‘‘ forgive her. 
she clung long to thee, even after she fully believed 
thee dead. Satouel was good. He attended divine 
worship. He joined the society. Everybody thought 
he was going to be a better man. The Clines thought 
so more than any, and they encouraged him. He 
was here several months. At last he asked her to be 
his wife. She refused. He importuned. He begged 
me to intercede for him.' Forgive me, Ahasuerus; 
I told her to marry him. She still refused. Her 
parents insisted. When she promised to marry him, 
I was by. I never heard such eloquence as Samuel’s 
then. She told him she would bo his wife, but he 
must wait till the next spring. When she told him 
this, he turned as pale as death, but said nothing. He 
went away to Boston, or somewhere. In the spring 
he came back, and they were married. They are 
now living in Boston. His health is very poor, and 
they say he drinks. He was only shamming. Mr. 
Cline’s folks know it now. Pity her, Ahasuerus, and 
forgive her. It would kill her to know that thou still 
livest.” 

Thus my hope was smitten out of me, crushed, and 
buried-for ever? 


318 


GREEN MOTJNTAIN 


Several montlis passed gloomily on. I had no 
ambition to begin the practice of my profession, and 
delayed it, staying around the home of my childhood, 
wrapped in a melancholy abstraction, which my 
friends labored in vain to dissipate. 

One day—I had been at home seven or eight 
months—^my father came from the village in an un¬ 
usually blithesome mood. I met him at the door, 
and he shook hands with me, though he had not been 
gone more than two hours. I was astonished; and 
still more so, when he put a newspaper in my hands, 
pointing, with a smile, to a paragraph headed, 
“Died.” The next instant I saw the cause of his 
feelings. In connection, I read, “ Suddenly, on the 

9th inst., at his residence in-St., Samuel Toom. 

(Pennsylvania papers please copy.)” The paper had 
come from Fanny ; her own dear hand-writing was 
on the margin, and on the wrapper. 

A star was in the sky—a morning star. The long, 
dark night was at an end; a new day was coming to 
my weary soul. 

The brother went immediately to Boston. In a 
few weeks he returned, bringing Fanny with him. 

After a decent interval, I visited her. She was not 



travellers’ entertalsment. 319 

much changed, only that she looked more sad than 
when I had last seen her. Our first interview was 
short and formal. The next was longer, and so the 
next. Then all restraint was taken off. We wept in 
each other’s arms, and were lovei-s again. 

A few happy months, and the union of souls, so 
long known in heaven, was consecrated before men, 
with great rejoicing; for everyone round about knew 
the history of our love, and gloriously exulted in the 
bliss which had at last come to us. 

Gentlemen, this is the end of the special train of 
facts. You must make your own peroration, for it’s 
late. I’m sure, and I must go to bed. 

‘‘ In view of the special facts, then,—the train 
thereof, I should say,—and the importuning of a 
fact, I pronounce this meeting actually in a state of 
adjournment, si—ne die.^^ 

Tims remarked the lawyer, with labored articu¬ 
lation, in the midst of a most distorting stretch ; and 
we all arose quietly, and quietly went our several 
ways, ending in bed. 

The following Sunday—and it was the next day 
but one—I stayed at a farm-house. ^ The family all 
went away to church, and left me alone. As I had 



320 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


the other two stories sketched down, it occurred to 
me, that perhaps some day I, or some one else, might 
be found in want of amusement; and, taking some¬ 
how a special interest in this story—long as it was— 
I thought I would add it to the others, thus making, 
at least, a pleasant reminiscence, 'which I could bring 
forth on a future occasion, if not for the gratification 
of some one else, at any rate for my own. So I spent 
the day in jotting down the leading points of the 
Quaker’s narration, in the evening consigning all to 
my old portmanteau for safe keeping, where, in a 
forgotten corner, they remained until the commence¬ 
ment of the present occasion. 


TRAYELLERS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 


321 


CHAPTEK Yin. 

(Of course I did not tell my story. Yet I had one 
in my head, and would have told it had opportunity 
been given. I introduce it here, under the general 
impression that the series would be incomplete with¬ 
out it. It is not a story from my own experience, 
but a slightly modified one which I remember of 
hearing when I was a boy. An old man, who used 
sometimes to come to our house, told it once to my 
parents and myself, on a quiet summer evening, for 
our entertainment. He told it with a great deal of 
feeling, and it afi’ected me—a child—very much. 
That it will have a corresponding effect upon “ child¬ 
ren of larger growth,” for whom it is now intended^ 
is, on my part, only to be hoped. 

With this parenthetical preface, I proceed, giving 
a title according to my fancy, and adopting the 
manner in which the old man told the story—as 
nearly as I can remember.) 

U* \ 


322 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


Ellen’s grave. 

A little less than two years ago, I visited my 
native town. Thirty years liacl gone by in the in¬ 
terval since my leaving it, and I found, naturally, 
that great changes had taken place in everything 
almost, and in nothing more than in the old church¬ 
yard. As the town had become populated, so had 
that, gathering its denizens in proportion. Aristo¬ 
cratic obelisks and iron railings; heavy marble slabs, 
with angel figures and drooping trees elaborately 
wrought upon them ; small slabs, with cherub figures 
and drooping buds ; unhewn slabs of common stone, 
with no device—without a name! Many, very 
many, of these were new to me. Many of the 
names, too, were new ; yet some were old—familiar 
as household words, and as dear. 

It was a sunny Sabbath afternoon, in early autumn, 
that I first went, after my arrival in the town, to 
visit the old grave-yard. I was in a melancholy 
mood, or I should not have gone, for I deem the 
resting-place of the dead too sacred a spot to be 
approached, except the soul be pre-attuned to the 
solemn strain whose echo is ever there; and as I 


travellers’ entertainment. 323 

wandered, reading the names which in years long 
gone I had so often heard, I grew more melancholy, 
for now and then a life-history—what else than a 
history of sorrows?—flashed from afar upon my 
quickened memory. Here a brave man, stalwart 
and sublime, who had fought for and reared a pre¬ 
cious growth of innocence, and worth, and beauty, to 
see it fade in its ripeness and in its bloom—passing 
from his frantic grasp, yet beckoning to him—^had 
lain him down, that he might go and be with the 
treasure he had lost. Here a meek woman, a 
widow—many years a widow—had gone to rest; 
rest which she could not And on earth, for she was 
the mother of an ungrateful son. Here a child, an 
orphan boy, had flnished his earthly course. He 
was a child of promise, and in his death there was 
no common sorrow, for as everybody knew his 
history, so everybody loved him. 

Thus I went on, enjoying with a kind of mournful 
surprise what the familiar names brought up. With 
mournful surprise. There w^s one I had in reserve. 
—^It could not surprise me, Ho; I knew, ay, well, 
where it was, and I reserved it to the last. When 
at length I canae to it, lingeringly, fascinated, yet 


324 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


stung with anguish, I removed my hat, and leaning 
upon my cane, I read (though I had no need), the 
inscription. “ In memory,” so it ran “ of Ellen 
Imcas, who died March 7th, IT—, aged 19 years, 
one month and three days.” As I read, I wept. It 
was but a gush, as the last scene, heavy and dim, was 
before me : — the gathered friends, the flickering 
lights, the sobs, the broken wails, the marble figure, 
and a smile which the spirit just departed had left to 
tell us whither it had gone. It was but a gush, for 
that smile carried me back to her childhood. I 
remembered her as she was when I first saw her, a 
prattling little creature, her words yet burdened with 
the charming lisp of infancy. Bright blue eyes she 
had—how bright!—and lips that might have kissed 
an angel’s, yet defiled them not, and around those 
lips and bright eyes often played a strangely vivid 
smile—so thrillingly beautiful, that to tempt it forth 
was a feast at which the heart was never sated, and 
which could never be forgotten. 

I was a young man then, studying law; and as I 
went to and from my place of study, I used often to 
stop and watch little Ellen playing in the yard before 
her mother’s house. So often I did this, that she 


travellers’ entertainment. 325 

came to know me well, and would come, when I 
asked her, to the fence and kiss me. One day as I 
came along, she was sitting on the step at the gate, 
crying. Touched with sympathy, I took her up 
gently and asked the cause of her grief. 

“ I called them, and they would not come,” she 
answered regretfully, and choked with sobs. 

“ Who would not come ?” I inquired. 

“ The pretty birds,” was her reply. I questioned 
her further, and she showed me on the grass a little 
blanket with some crumbs of bread upon it. This 
she had prepared for sbme birds that had been 
singing on a neighboring tree. She had called them, 
and they would not come, but singing awhile, had 
flown away. “Why did they not come?” I asked 
with no certain object. She did not reply directly, 
but said in a tone wonderfully pathetic for a child, 
“ I love them, but they don’t love me.” 

I wiped away her tears, soothing her, and pre¬ 
sently she forgot her disappointment and its cause. 
!JTot so with me. 

Little Ellen was the daughter of a widow—her 
father she had never seen. She had a brother three 
years older than herself—an only brother, and she an 


326 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


only sister. He was a bold, healthful lad, with 
strongly-marked features, and a fierce energy that 
seemed almost too great for one so young. 

A year or two later, when they began to go to 
school together, I remember how they used to appear 
on their way hand in hand—she looking at him, at 
the trees, at the birds, and flashing her strangely 
beautiful smile into the faces of passers by—^he with 
his jacket thrown open, his cap almost off his head, 
his long hair tossed by the wind, looking fierce, 
unutterable things into the great future which was 
ever opening upon his gleaming sight. A noble boy 
—such as one points out proudly to a friend. 

I had not ceased my tarryings now and then to 
watch little Ellen in her sports. One day, as I was 
passing, her brother was with her in the front yard 
playing. He was trimming a kite, she building a 
play-house. I stopped, and stood looking, unobserved 
by them. Suddenly she turned from her play-house, 
as though she had lost all interest in it for ever, and 
asked her brother what he was going to be when he 
should have grown up. 

“ I don’t know,” he replied, engaged with his kite, 
then in a moment, recollecting himself, continued, 


travellers’ entertainment. 327 

gazing off into the skj, his face beaming as thongh he 
saw some glorious object—Yes I do, too. I’m going 
to be a great man. I’m going to he rich, and liave a 
gold watch, and have all the money I want to give to 
beggars. And I’ll make a silk kite, and have a cord 
ten-thousand-thousand feet long, so I can fly it away 
up above the clouds where the eagles went last 
fall.” 

Wouldn’t you ever want to get married ?” she 
asked with timid earnestness. 

“ No,” said he stoutly. “ I’d have you live with 
me. We shouldn’t have to go to school then, and 
we could do just as we please. I’d like to see Ben 
Bottles snow-ball me then, and say he’d tell my mother 
if I touched him !” 

“ I’m going to get married when I grow up,” said 
the little girl after a minute’s pause—“ I’m going to 
marry a prince and be a queen, and have glass dolls 
as big as I am, and gold play-houses, and a great 

room, as big as our parlor, full of flowers, and- 

everything.” 

The brother seemed not to have heard it, for he 
took his kite, and with a loud hurrah started towards 
the common. She turned around, looked with a sor- 


328 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN 


rowful dissatisfaction upon her unfinished play-hoirJG; 
and walked slowly into the house. 

Thus Ellen’s childhood came beamingly to ray 
mind as I stood by her sunken grave, and it dried my 
tears. 

Over a lapse of several years—years of absence 
from my native town—my mind leapt, and I saw her 
in the first ripeness of womanhood—the child deve¬ 
loped and intensified—still looking upon the world as 
a garden with fiowers springing up everywhere. She 
was beautiful in the world’s estimation—^very beauti¬ 
ful, and as witty as beautiful. The proud, whether of 
riches mental or material, sought her society, and 
flatterers were ever humming honeyed words in her 
ear. 

I renewed her acquaintance—not to sip and flattei 
as others did, but that I might be her friend and 
guard her; for I knew how narrow was the pathway 
which she was treading with such airy tread, and the 
depth of the gulfs which yawned on either side. It 
was a pleasant duty, and when I told her I had taken 
it upon me, she thanked me for it, and with the deep 
earnestness for which she was peculiar, confessed her 
need of a firm, sagacious friend, who would always 


travellers’ entertainment. 


329 


tell her the truth and love her for her virtues. I 
should not perhaps have volunteered to sustain this 
relation to her had her brother been at home. He 
was at college—away, pursuing the objects of his high 
ambition, and scarcely knowing more of her than 
that she was his sister, and that he loved her. 

As I became more intimately acquainted with her, 
I noticed a strange trait. I was long making the dis¬ 
covery complete, for she kept it hid in her inmost 
heart. In her childhood I had seen it, but had 
deemed it then only an idle fancy, and now hoped it 
might prove nothing else. From the reading she in¬ 
dulged in I first surmised it, and then from remarks 
dropped in careless as well as in earnest moods. I at 
last came to know the fact. It was this: An un¬ 
bounded admiration of rank. The tinsel and the 
courtly sound of rank so fascinated her, though she 
knew them only in imagination, that the land of her 
birth was to her an object of contempt because it did 
not cherish them. Strange trait, indeed; yet oftener 
felt than seen, I wis. When I sought to dispossess 
her of it, it was hidden deeper from me and disowned, 
and I relinquished the attempt. 

One day, several months after my return, a stran- 


330 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


ger came to our town, and took lodgings in the same 
hotel at which I was staying. The fact was not nota¬ 
ble, but the habits and appearance of the individual 
were somewhat so. He was apparently between 
twenty-live and thirty years of age. His dress was 
of the latest cut, and punctiliously adjusted. Upon 
his upper lip flourished a heavy, glossy growth of 
beard, exquisitely arranged. His hair was long and 
curling, and was combed smoothly behind his ears. 
He vrore gold-mounted spectacles, with side-glasses, 
completely hiding the expression of his eyes, and car¬ 
ried a golden-headed cane. Among the folds of his 
shirt-bosom, gleamed an ornament of strange device 
—a golden heart, intricately wound with exceed¬ 
ingly flne golden wire, and pierced with a diamond- 
pointed dart. Except this he wore no jewelry. 

For nearly two weeks after his arrival, he was 
not seen below stairs. He took his meals in his room, 
and received no company. One afternoon, as I was 
standing at the door of the hotel, watching the people 
passing to and fro on their divers errands of good or 
evil, I felt a gentle touch upon my shoulder, and, turning 
round, I saw the stranger before me. With the exqui¬ 
site modulation of a native Frenchman, he addressed 


travellers’ entertainment. 331 

me in that tongue, soliciting me to share with him 
the unutterable pleasure of a short promenade. 
Assuming the best grace and the best French I could, 
I informed him I was at leisure, and should be happy 
in attending him. He placed his arm in mine, and 
we walked on together. 

“You are, as well as myself, from foreign parts,” 
he began, still addressing me in French. I informed 
him that I was an American, rather testily, I fear, 
for I thought he was inexcusably dull, or was making 
game of me; and I informed him, moreover, that my 
knowledge of the French language was very imper¬ 
fect, and requested him, if he could as well speak 
English, to do so. Upon this he craved my pardon, 
and with an accent as perfect as had been his French, 
he proceeded in English. “ I was laboring under a 
mistake, my dear sir. I was sure you were French- 
born. Can it be I have been so mistaken ? You will 
surely pardon me.” 

This left me in so awkward a predicament that I 
kept silence, and we walked on a number of minutes, 
neither of us speaking. At last, becoming somewhat 
annoyed with the taciturnity of my companion, I 
turned towards him, thinking to address some casual 


332 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


remark to him, when I was startled with the steady, 
piercing look which I met. The sensation of being 
in the vicinity of a huge, wrathful viper, took such 
deep hold upon me that a slight shudder shot along 
my nerves. 

“ By the way,” said he quickly, yet carelessly, 
“ have you been long in this delightful town 

This is my birth-place,” I replied, “but I have 
been absent from it many years, having returned only 
a few months since.” 

“ Aha ! Your birth-place ? and you have been 
absent many years ? It must be pleasant to return 
from distant wanderings to your birth-place, to meet 
your old companions; to kiss sweet lips that were at 
the mother’s breast when you went away; and to waltz 
with those who then knew nothing of passion’s glow; 
to read in the cool, steady eye of the matron, the tale 
of passion, ripe then, now plucked, enjoyed, and 
existing only in memory. Indeed it must be pleas¬ 
ant ;—or am I on forbidden ground ? Perhaps you are 
married ?” 

“No,” I replied, telling the truth. The next 
moment I continued, with a wink, “ I prefer single 
life; it gives greater latitude, you know.” 


TRAVELLERS ENTERTAINMENT. 


333 


He saw the object of mj remark, perhaps, and only 
responded with a smile. We walked in silence 
again. Suddenly he spoke in an altered tone. 

“ I am a vranderer. The world is my home—my 
inheritance the future. Time is my father. All will 
be his, then why not mine ? I like ruins. I take 
after my father. But Pleasure is my mother, and 
pleasure goes before ruins; otherwise life would be a 
cart-before-the-horse sort of an affair, and we would 
do better to die first and live afterwards—not having 
the fear of death before our eyes, eh? Isn’t that 
good philosophy?” 

I bowed assent. 

“ Would you think I ever had any trouble?” he 
continued, resuming his gay tone. “ Yet a veil must 
hide something. Do you understand that ? I have 
lost much, may gain much. Aha ! may gain a great 
deal, and lose it afterwards. So goes the world. But 
the Devil take the odds! The future is my inheri¬ 
tance. Beauty is all around me. I can enjoy that — 
as a mam. of jprindjple^ you know. What is man 
without principle in this world ? Do you know what 
I heard a dying man say once ? Said he, ‘ I would 
give all the prindjpal I possess for one more hour of 


334 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


life.’ I thought at first it was a blasphemy, and was 
going to be horrified, when a friend whispered in my 
ear, ‘ his avarice is melting.’ ‘ Yes, and give heed to 
the value of money,’ I responded, seeing the point. 
That offer was about equal to the actual performance 
of a fellow of my acquaintance, who, in a fit of jea¬ 
lousy, determined to shoot his rival. He was very 
rich, and that the justice of the deed might stick out, 
he bartered his possessions for a bank note, and mak¬ 
ing a wad of it, heaped the favor, with the addition 
of a little lead, upon said rival, killing, of course, two 
birds at once—three in fact, for they hung him, not¬ 
withstanding his generosity, or rather because of its 
being misdirected. You underetand, there was no 
object in defending him. I tell you, you must have 
money, if you wish to appear in a favorable light 
before a jury.” The last sentence was spoken in a 
low, emphatic tone, as though it contained valuable 
information. 

Our walk was finished, and we re-entered the 
hotel. “ Will you go up to my apartment ?” he asked, 
albeit releasing his arm from mine. I did as he 
wanted me to—politely declined, and we separated. 

I felt relieved when he was gone; yet there was 
something in the recollection of his manner tha^ 


TRAVELLERS ENTERTAINMENT. 


335 


drev; me towards him, and I would fain excuse his 
lightness of hearing, his appearance of hollowness. 
There was an undefined impression clung to me that 
he had seen great trouble, and that “ that veil did 
hide something,” and in spite of the viperine look 
that had so startled me, I felt quite warm at heart 
towards him as I dwelt upon the recollection of his 
general manner. I wanted to see him again. This 
want was soon gratified. The fourth day after our 
walk, I received a note inviting me very politely to 
come to his room. I went. lie met me with great 
urbanity of demeanor, leading me to a chair, over¬ 
whelming me with solicitous remarks concerning my 
health and prospects. When he had done with my 
health and prospects, he fell to talking of his own, 
concluding. “ I’m very lonely, too, here in this little 
out-of-the-way town—I beg your pardon, sir, but it 
isn’t a city, you know, and I have been accustomed 
to the excitement of balls, and plays, and lectures, 
and all that sort of thing, you know, and I must 
have a substitute, or I shall absolutely perish.” 

There was much earnestness in his manner, so 
much that my sympathy was considerably excited, 
and I told him I would do all that within me lay to 
afford him social pastime. He expressed muc'- 


836 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


gratitude for my promise, and to convince him of my 
sincerity, I invited him to accompany me to a select 
party which was to meet at Mrs. Lucas’s that evening. 
He accepted my invitation, and we went. On the 
way he gave me a card, upon which I saw elegantly 
penned, “ Leopold, Paris.” “ You will please to 
introduce me accordingly,” he said. 

In the faultless elegance and soft fascination of M. 
Leopold that evening, I saw nothing of the wayward 
uncertainty which he had manifested to me when 
alone with him. There seemed to he but one feeling 
in the company towards him—that of admiration 
and respect. Tliough the oldest there, so completely 
did I yield to his influence, that I could have 
embraced him in the ardor of strongest friendship. 
Could Ellen remain indifferent ? Her feelings were 
quite too evident. Hours after, when the social 
ravishment had wasted itself in sweet dreams, I 
awoke in the calm night, and reflected upon it. I 
was conscience-stricken. A still, small voice stabbed 
me with its murmuring “All is not well.” But I 
hooded the tormenter, saying, “ If bad come out of 
it, I shall have done my duty. If there be danger, 
my warning will avert it.” Did I understand the 
female heart ? What virtuous bachelor ever did ? 


travellers’ entertainment. 837 

From that time forward, M. Leopold seemed to 
shun me. Why ? Had he only wished to use me ? 
Deep as it cut, I could not help the inference. When 
I became fully aware that he really did shun me, I 
repented deeply the act I had done, and with vision 
sharpened by the injury my pride had sustained, and 
anxiety concerning my lovely jprotege I watched his 
movements closely. I found no alleviation in 
watching, for I saw too plainly that Ellen had 
attracted him, and, though the warning had been 
given and repeated, I saw that he was taking strong 
hold upon her heart. It did not matter now to say 
I had striven to avert the danger. My conscience 
smote me sorely that I had brought them together. 
Danger. Is there danger? I sometimes asked my 
judgment. He is a villain, my judgment told me, 
and I believed it. Perhaps he would deal honorably 
with her. In that hope there was comfort, and I did 
not resist it. Perhaps, too, prejudice warped my 
judgment. I had only my first impression of him, 
and the fact of his shunning me, from which to infer. 
In the former I might be mistaken, in the latter my 
feelings were necessarily concerned. Yet that would 
not do. Tliirty-five years of varied experience in 
human nature did not tend to promote charity in 


338 


GKEEN MOUNTAIN 


such a case. Still lie might deal honorably by her, 
and upon this I rested—uneasily. 

Of course, as M. Leopold had come forth into 
society, the whole town had run wild after him. He 
had become, at once, the talk and the thought of all, 
and continued so. How could it be otherwise ? A 
foreigner, with a courtier-like name, young, hand¬ 
some, brilliant, fascinating, circulating among a fash- 
ion-loving, yet comparatively unsophisticated people. 
When I saw how great was his popularity, I wished 
much that I could think of him only as I had seen him 
that first evening, at Mrs. Lucas’s. But I could not. 

He still continued to shun me. Why? Did he 
wish to make Ellen his wife, what could be his object 
in thus treating her chosen friend ? If not—ay, then 
he might have an object. I had not thought of it 
so, before; yet I would not, when the idea flashed 
into my mind, allow it to take form. I was power¬ 
less for good, and must now abide the result as it 
might be. I found means at last to quiet my con¬ 
science, but my forebodings—foolish as I tried to 
consider them, sometimes—would not depart. 

M. Leopold was often at Mrs. Lucas’s, and occasion¬ 
ally I met him there. I could not help but admire 
him, though towards me he was so refinedly civil— 


TBAVELLEES’ ENTERTAINMENT. 


339 


SO exquisitely icy. What could Ellen do but love 
him ? And when I looked upon him, I had it not in 
my heart to dissuade her, if to dissuade her had been 
possible. Yet there were moments when I was alone 
and calm, in which I would have made any sacrifice, 
, ther than of life, to have induced her to banish him 
from her presence. Thus my mind wavered, with no 
tangible cause. The vacillation made me timorous, 
which was, perhaps, the chief reason why I did not, 
the third time, sound my warning in Ellen’s ears. 

M. Leopold’s attentions to Ellen, and their analogi¬ 
cally-established marriage, became the talk of the 
excited town, and except where envy was plainly at 
work, no objection was urged. All believed in a 
sunny result. Had anybody else such first impres¬ 
sions as I had ? Evidently not. 

Walking in the street one day, I was most agreea¬ 
bly surprised at meeting, in company with a friend 
who introduced him to me, Morgan Lucas, Ellen’s 
brother. I had known him well when he was a boy, 
but had not seen him since. Time had done much for 
him. Large, yet gracefully symmetrical in form, he 
stood before me in the noble bearing of fully deve- 
lo'[)ed manhood. The same fierce, dark eye, now 
illumined with the meaning fire of high-toned intelli- 


340 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


gence, and steadied witli the experience of profitably 
spent years. He had just returned from college, and 
was, so he said, now prepared to enter upon the 
duties of life. Alas ! that the first duty was to be so 
severe. But a wise Ruler had decreed it. 

The next da^^ he called at my office. I was alone 
when he came. After the first gush of friendly greet¬ 
ing, I saw that a shade rested upon his countenance. 

‘‘Have you seen Ellen, lately?” said he, with a 
tone of voice in which anger, sadness, and tenderness 
were strangely blended. 

“ Last week,” I replied; “ why do you ask ?” 

“ Do you know that fellow who styles himself Leo¬ 
pold, who is hanging about town here, doing nothing? 
He boards at the same hotel with you, I believe.” 

“I know him, yes; but I know nothing about 
him,” I answered, far more deeply interested than I 
wanted to appear. 

“Well, he’s a scamp—take my word for it.” 

“ Have you seen him ?” I inquired. 

“ He came to our house last night. He’s a talented 
rogue, though. He made an excellent show. But 1 
could read him. Oh! I hate that cobra-de-capella 
look of his.” 

Ov/r first impressions, tlien, agreed; but I did not 


travellers’ entertainment. 341 

betray my feelings, only remarking, “ I am sorry be 
does not please yon, for it is said be is to be your 
brother,” 

I bad gone too far. He put bis band upon my 
shoulder, and looking into my face with a keen, ear¬ 
nest glance, as though be would read my soul, said— 
“ Do you remember Ellen and me when we were 
thoughtless children? Do you remember how I 
loved her then ? Do you know that that love has 
grown with my growth, centering all my love for the 
sex in her, until my very life would seem to depend 
upon hers ? I know you were a friend to us children, 
and I believe you are our friend now. If you are, 
do not mock me so with words. If I ever needed 
the judicious support of an experienced friend, I do 

now. Mr. D-, I believe that Leopold to be a 

scoundrel, and that he- does not intend to marry 
Ellen, but to ruin her—if—Oh, my God! Don’t let 
me think it!” 

The veil I had assumed was gone. “Morgan,” 
said I, grasping his hand, “ I am your friend, and 
you may open your heart to me. Now tell me why 
you think he is a villain.” 

“Well, I will,” he replied. “This morning I was 
talking with Ellen about him. With the utmost sin- 


342 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


cerity she told me he was a prince in disguise, 
‘Prince of blacklegs,’ said I. ‘Oh, don’t talk so, 
brother,’ said she, with that deep tone of injured love 
which you know she might have on such an occasion, 
and forthwith brought me a letter which purported to 
be from a distinguished man in France, written in 
English, mind you. In that letter he was addressed 
as ‘ His Most Serene Highness,’ and lots of other such 
nonsense. I asked her to let me see some of his hand¬ 
writing, which she did with that open confidence I 
so love in her, dear girl! I compared the writing 
carefully, and there it was, as plain as day, the same. 
How, you know her weakness, and don’t you suppose 
he knows it ? And do you suppose he would have 
played that trick off upon her, if he only wished to 
marry her like an honest man ? Strange that she 
don’t see it! I told her so; but she began to cry, and 
that was the last of it, then, of course. Oh ! I hope it 
is not too late.” 

I knew not wdiat to say. Here my worst apprehen¬ 
sions w^ere taking the form of reality. I arose and 
walked the fioor of my office, thinking of what I should 
advise. I could think of no better course than to wait 
and watch. “We can do nothing except as we may 
persuade her,” I said at last. “ Perhaps what you 


TRAVELLEES’ ENTERTAmiENT. 343 

said this morning may have an effect.” I talked on 
for some time in this strain, and then he left me, pro¬ 
mising to come again the next day. When he was 
gone I sat down to reflect more calmly. M. Leopold 
is a villain, that’s clear, thought I. His designs re¬ 
garding Ellen have been base, that’s also clear. Have 
those designs been already accomplished? I must 
not believe it. .Yet there was a dreadful sense of cer¬ 
tainty in the surmise. Some one had whispered in 
my ear that morning that M. Leopold was going 
away—whispered, because there was little foundation 
for the report—and because (it was a shrewd guess for 
anybody to make) Ellen would be so disappointed. 
Pressure of business had kept the report out of my 
mind, until Morgan came. I would not tell him—no; 
4e knew enough already. But now it was before me, 
ind I felt sick at heart. If that were true, all was 
true! That must determine it. Yet we must not 
be idle. Ho, we would watch lynx-eyed. If not now 
too late, if not already gone down into that dread gulf 
which is fathomless, our kindly grasp would draw her 
from the brink. It seemed almost a vain hope, yet I 
encouraged it, and thus dismissed, or tried to, the har¬ 
rowing theme. 

The next morning, as I went early to my office, I 


344 


GEEEN MOUNTAIN 


was painfully surprised to find Morgan standing at 
my door. Before I reached him I saw that something 
had transpired, for his face was pale and downcast. 
As I came up to him, he took my hand, and looked 
earnestly at me a moment, yet did not speak. We 
entered the office and sat down. For several minutes 
he remained silent, staring vacantly at the fioor. I 
felt it was for him to speak first, and remained silent 
also. At last he said, mournfully: 

It seems strange to think what three days have 
brought to me—or, rather what they have taken from 
me. It seems like a dream. It must be a dream. I 
shall awake from it. I cannot live if I do not. How 
true was my instinct! I read it in her as well as in 
him. Must it be so ? Dear, dear girl! It is an awful 
truth.’’ 

“ What! ” I exclaimed, torn with anguish. His 
face was ashy pale, and his eyes rolled fiercely. 

‘‘ It is so,” he resumed. “ What a night I have 
passed! But away with these vain regrets. Blood 
is on the breeze—ay, blood! Life? Honsense ! Mr. 

D-, I have it to tell you. Last night that wretch 

was there—to see Ellen. I would not go into the 
room. I could not. I went early to my own room, 
which is directly over the parlor. For an hour or 


travellers’ ENTERTAEmENT. 845 

two it was quiet enongTi. Mother was ‘gone to bed. 
Presently I heard a scornful laugh—the detestable 
voice ! I knew it. ‘I shall die ’—in beseeching tones. 
It was Ellen. Another scornful laugh. ‘ Will you 
never come and see me ?’ she begged. ‘ Don’t be 
foolish, girl.’ Cold as an iceberg the tone was. Ellen 
was crying. I could hear her sob. ‘ Well, are you 
going to say good-by,’ he went on in the same cold 
tone. ‘How can you. Oh, my heart will break!’ 
Such despair in her voice ! I wanted to go down and 
cut his heart out; but I was chained to the spot. 

‘ Don’t make so much noise, you pretty wench, or I’ll 
run now,’ he said. ‘ Oh, I’ll not speak. I never will 
speak again. But stay. Don’t leave me.’ She tried 
to talk low, but I heard distinctly. For a few mo¬ 
ments neither of them said anything, or if they did, 
spoke in a whisper. ‘Are you going,’ she broke out 
almost in a shriek. ‘ Shut up. You’ll raise the 
neighborhood. Let go of me ! Come now. How do 
be a quiet, staid, little maid, such as I found you, and 
let me go.’ ‘ Tell me you will write to me. Tell me 
you will think of me. Oh, promise!’ Such wild des¬ 
pair ! ‘ How, wench you’re intolerable. Let me go. 

Do you hear ? Let me go.’ I heard a fall. The band 
was loosed. The next moment I was in the parlor. 


346 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


He was goncf, and Ellen lay there on the floor in a 
swoon. I called my mother, and we restored her, so 
that she could sit up ; hut her mind wandered. She 
could not collect her ideas so as to tell me where I 
would find the fiend, or she would not tell me, I don’t 
know but that was it. She knows my temper. I did 
not trouble her much. I knew enough. The dread¬ 
ful truth was clear. I believe my own mind wandered. 
For a moment it seemed he was before me. I clutched 
his heart and tore it from his body. I threw it upon 
the floor and stamped it. Mother led Ellen to her 
bed. Poor girl! She moaned. I never heard such 
a moan. It maddened me more than ever. But the 
phantasm was gone. All was reality ! Oh, such a 
night as last night was! I could not think of sleep. 
But I’m calm now. About sunrise a strange calm¬ 
ness came over me,—so deep, so like a giant spirit 
breathing its whole energy into mine—that I was as¬ 
tonished. I feel it now.” 

I saw it in his face, and there was something awful 
about it, like the sense one gets from beholding a 
distant, steady gleam in the depths of night. 

There is one little hope,” he resumed; “but I do 
not depend upon it. I don’t know as I want to. Yet 
it shall be fairly done, Mr. D-, I have craved 



travellers’ entertainment. 347 

advice of you; but I don’t ask it now. I don’t want 
to implicate you. I only want you to go with me. 
I am young. I may not remain so calm; and 
want you to stand by me. I know you are my 
friend.” 

He reached out his hand, and I grasped it, return¬ 
ing his earnest look. 

“ Hot a moment is to be lost now,” he continued, 
rising, and we went out together. As we were walk¬ 
ing along, he said, You know his room; I will let 
you lead the way, if you please.” The hotel was not 
far off, and we soon reached it. “ Are you armed ?” 
I asked, as we ascended the stairs. 

“ With truth and justice,” he replied. 

“Well, but that will not do,” said I, halting. 
“ You must have a more material weapon than those.” 

“ I have thought it all over,” he pursued, urging 
me forward. “ I didn’t know how the sight of him 
might madden me.” 

I could do no better than to yield, and we went on 
to M. Leopold’s room. 

The reception we met with was faultless in point 
of politeness. He was, apparently, in his happiest 
mood, and talked with us sometime upon miscella¬ 
neous, indifferent topics, with great vivacity and ele- 


348 


aREEN MOUNTAIN 


gance of manner. Morgan sustained our part of the 
conversation. As for myself, I feared to open my 
mouth, lest I should betray my emotions. How Mor¬ 
gan kept so cool, I could not comprehend. His man¬ 
ner was light and easy, having nothing in it to betray, 
in the least, the object of his coming. While they 
were thus talking, I looked around the room. It 
gave evident signs of its tenant being about to depart 
Trunks, covered and strapped, ready for the porter; 
an overcoat and a cloak, carefully brushed, lying on 
the table, and a portmanteau by their side. There 
could be no mistake about it. 

There was a pause of a minute or so in the con¬ 
versation. 

“You are about leaving, I see,’’ said Morgan, as 
though it was a casual remark, looking around at the 
signs to which I have alluded. 

“ I am, sir,” he replied, and there was a little defi¬ 
ance in the tone of his voice. 

“ When will you return, think you—if I may be 
so bold,” Morgan inquired, as though it was nothing to 
him. I wondered more and more at his nonchalance 

“ It is doubtful, sir,” replied M. Leopold, still some¬ 
what defiant. I looked at Morgan. The veins of his 
neck and temples were full—the giant spirit was upon 


travellers’ ENTERTArCTMENT. 349 

him. Bending slightly forward, and fixing his burn 
ing eyes upon M. Leopold, he said in a firm tone, ‘‘ Dc 
you know, sir, why I have come here this morning V 
M. Leopold was not surprised, nor apparently in 
the least disconcerted, and replied with a kind of 
mocking smile, “ Well, indeed, I don’t know, unless it 
was to bid me farewell. Our acquaintance is short, 
it is true, but ”- 

‘‘ Sir, you can dispense with that mocke'^y,” said 
Morgan, interrupting him. “ I came here n more 
serious business than to bid you farewell. I came 
here, sir, in the first place, to ask you, and m must 
answer me, when you intend to return, O) whether 
you intend to return at all or not.” 

“ Yes, sir. Are you aware, my emblem </f tender 
manhood, that you are decidedly impudent V 

“ Answer me, sir, or the consequences be yours,” 
said Morgan, rising to his feet. 

“Aha! You think of forcing matters, I see. 
What do you think you will make out of it, eh ?” 
Young man, sit down, and calmly hear me eay that 
—are you going to stand ? well, take it so, then— 
that, in short, sir, to come right to the point, for I’m 
getting serious, that I shall not probably visit your 
delightful town again—very soon. Now, sir,— 1 


350 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


know it isn’t polite, but circumstances demand it— 
will you leave this room ?” 

“ No, sir, not till I have done. You acknowledge 
that you do not intend to return. I will spare you 
no longer. Base wretch !”—^how scathingly he spoke 
it!—“ you have done a deed which cannot be passed 
over. You are a villain. I beard you with tlie 
name! And I call heav”- 

“Hold on, young man,” hastily interrupted M. 
Leopold, with a low, husky voice—^he had lost com¬ 
mand of himself, and was pale with passion—“I’m 
not accustomed to this. Leave the room, or I’ll fix 
you so that you can be carried out.” He turned to 
his overcoat which was near at hand, and drew from 
one of the pockets a heavy pistol. Prompted by fear 
for my friend’s life, I made a movement as though 
I would step between them ; but Morgan held me 
back, saying in a manner that betokened the very 
opposite of fear, “ He dare not shoot. Let us see if 
he dare and he raised himself to his fullest height, 
and. folding his arms, looked down contemptuously 
at M. Leopold. The latter clutched his weapon con¬ 
vulsively, and essayed to level it, but his hand trem¬ 
bled. After twice attempting, he desisted, and 
slowly arose to his feet. 


travellers’ entertainment. 351 

See the puppy!” Morgan exclaimed. ‘^See the 
extent of his courage, will you ? Oh ! 1 want him to 
shoot me. He has stolen my life; I want him to take 
the semblance of it. Let”- 

“ Young man,” interrupted M. Leopold with 
tolerable firmness of manner, though yet pale with 
the tumult of passion, “ you have a commendable 
stock of bravery, I must confess—worthy of a better 
cause.” 

“Abetter cause!” exclaimed Morgan, with noble 
indignation. 

“Yes, I mean it,” resumed the other, growing 
calmer. “ You are making a fine fool of yourself, 
without counting the cost. Moreover, I, for my part, 
can’t see any cause about it; and I don’t believe your 
friend here does, either. You come here and put 
impudent inquiries to me, and because I so deem 
them, you beard me with hard names. You must 
be laboring under some hallucination.” 

“ Flimsy trash ! You know what you have done. 
You know you deserve a lingering death at my 
hands. You know I would not descend to you, if 
you had not risen to pollute the fountain of my life. 
Vile wretch! Serpent! sneaking, detestable viper ’ 
I will curse you, and you shall hear me.” 



352 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


M. Leopold’s anger again got the master of him. 

“ Bj G—d! I’ve a good mind to shoot him 
down,” he said huskily, as though speaking to 
himself, glancing alternately at his weapon and at 
Morgan. 

“Shoot, villain!” said Morgan, with a sublime 
defiance; “ I shall have a dying word for you, that 
will gore your black heart for ever.” 

M. Leopold did not seem to have heai-d the remark, 
but went on speaking to himself. “ Ho, I have had 
enough of it. Pshaw! and all this for a girl! 
Young man,” he continued, looking at Morgan, “you 
had better go home, and say nothing about it. I left 
the girl as I found her, 'do you understand ?” 

Like a thunderbolt, and as quick, a heavy blow 
laid him senseless upon the floor. It was Morgan did 
it, exclaiming, “ Swallow your foul words ! I can no 
longer forbear.” Then turning to me he said calmly, 
“ If I have killed him, think you I have not done 
right ?” 

I stooped to examine the insensible man. He was 
not dead. In a few moments he opened his eyes, 
and with much effort raised himself upon his elbow. 
As soon as he had recovered his voice, he said, 
“Young man, this act demands satisfaction. You 


TKAVELLEKS’ ENTERTAINMENT. 353 

will hear from me soon. I hope yon will not 
refuse.” 

Morgan made no reply, but turning slowly, as 
though impelled, left the room. I followed him, and 
we went back to the office. 

“ It looks,” said Morgan, after we had sat a few 
minutes in silence, “ as though I went there on pur¬ 
pose to provoke him to a duel, don’t it ? But that 
was not my intention. I only wanted to-day to have 
him hear me curse him—curse him as his damning 
crime deserves. I did not say half I meant to. His 
imputation overcame my prudence. If that blow 
had killed'him I should have been sorry, for I know 
that a few . years, if he live, will bring remorse—a 
punishment more terrible than man can invent. Do 
you think he will challenge me ?” 

I could see no reason to doubt it, and told him so. 

“ It is not that I shrink from death; but Ellen 
would have no friend to protect her if I should 
fall, and I do not want to kill him so; vengeance 
would be half cheated of its prey if I should. I hope 
he will not challenge me.” 

After about an hour, Morgan went away. It was 
Thursday this happened—Saturday I saw him again. 
He had received a challenge, and accepted it, and 


354 


^ GREEN MOUNTAIN 


came to ask me if I would serve as liis assistant. At 
first I thouglit I would decline, but I felt that the die 
was cast, that the dreadful test was inevitable, and 
* I ought not—I could not, the more I thought of it— 
forsake him. When I had acceded to his desire, we 
went out and walked together. He talked of Ellen. 

Poor girl!” he exclaimed, ‘‘ she grows worse and 
worse. She moans aijd weeps continually. She will 
not eat, and she sleeps scarcely at all. She will 
answer questions, seems to comprehend what is going 
on about her, yet pays little attention to it. Her 
bodily strength is rapidly failing. I am afraid she 
will die. She thinks the villain is gone. She knows 
nothing about what is brewing. I don’t want her to, 
until the result be known. She loves the beastly 
scoundrel. Oh, what infatuation ! Pm going to kill 
him if I can do it fairly; and if I do, I suppose she 
will hate me for it—^if she live. But she will not 
live. Her heart is broken. I know it.” 

We walked on, and came back to my office. Just 
before we separated, he took my hand, saying, “ Mr. 

D-, I don’t feel just as I did the other day, about 

that wretch. I have come to the conclusion that he 
deserves immediate death—that he ought not to roam 
farther on his desolating course. I do not mean to 


TEAVELLERS’ ENTERTAmMENT. 855 

assassinate him. But in the coming contest, you must 
not look for compromise. One of us must die. If 
he live at the expense of my life, perhaps remorse 
will visit him earlier. At all events I shall have 
done my duty.” 

Tlie preliminaries were arranged. The meeting 
w^as to take place on the following Monday afternoon 
in a secluded spot—a kind of glade—some three 
miles from town. The weapons were to be pistols, 
and the distance ten paces. 

During the intervening Sunday, I was with Mor¬ 
gan. For an hour or two towards evening I was at 
his mother’s. Oh, what a change since I had been 
there!—an interval of one week. Ellen, the bril¬ 
liant, the beautiful, the hopeful-a wreck. Pale 

and haggard, her eyes almost blind with weeping, 
her once glossy tresses wildly scattered over her 
stooping form, she walked to and fro in her room, 
moaning unceasingly. 

“ I love them, but they don’t love me,”—the dis¬ 
tant recollection came, and I wept unreservedly. I 
did not seek to disturb her, but tearfully contem¬ 
plated her through the open door of her room, until, 
becoming aware of my presence, she shut herself 
from my sight. The mother, bowed with extremes! 


356 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


sorrow, sat in silence, as one bereaved of all that 
could sweeten life. The brother—what a change in 
him I In his youth, in his day of most glorious hope, 
a viper had stung him, and turned all to darkness. 
There was life yet—^tierce, pent energy, which must 
work out in its terrible power, before the wreck 
should be complete. 

It was too mournful. I could not bear it, and hur¬ 
ried away. 

Early in the afternoon, Monday, Morgan came to 
the hotel, where I had promised to be, and we 
repaired to the place of meeting. We were first on 
the ground, and sat down at the base of an old tree 
to await the coming of the others. It was October. 
The autumn frosts had done more than half their 
work. Tall trees had begun to show their boughs 
bleakly against the sky, and embowered vistas were 
coming to be naked, desolate paths. A blue mist 
hovered upon the distant hills, resting less dense upon 
the broad plain that intervened. The mist was quiet 
—silent. The sunlight, too, was quiet, and the 
winds, yet eloquent all—their voice the rustling of 
the falling leaves. The great Anthem of the Year 
was in its minor key, and one note bore the burden 
of the melting strain. 


travellers’ entertainment. 357 

“ Talk to me, Mr. D-, I am very wretched,” said 

Morgan. 

‘‘ What shall it be about ?” I asked, counterfeiting 
an encouraging smile. 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” he replied, sinking back; 
“ only it seems I shall go wild. I don’t want you to 
say anything. Did it ever seem so quiet and mourn¬ 
ful before ? Oh, so mournful! Dear, dear Ellen! 
My sister. What has been done? We used to come 
here together for berries and autumn-flowers—-years 
ago. She is not dead. Why not blot out this awful 
thing, and be as we were once, again ? Alas! it is a 
fixed reality. Death alone can change it. It will be 
changed soon. Her days are numbered. When she 
«hall be in the grave, if I live, I may feel a melan¬ 
choly satisfaction—I may at least come to recall these 
awful days, and not be overwhelmed. Hark! did I 
hear a voice ? Yes, there they come.” 

We stood up, and they came towards us. M. Leo¬ 
pold and his assistant on foot, having left their car¬ 
riage a short distance away. M. Leopold was dressed 
in a complete suit of grey, and walked with his eyes 
cast down and his hands behind him. They halted a 
few rods from us, and his second beckoning, I went 
towards them. The solemn preliminaries were soon 


358 


GREKN MOUNTAIN 


arranged, and the combatants took the positions 
assigned them. When I placed the weapon of death 
in Morgan’s hand, he said with a firm, yet mournful 
voice; 

‘‘You know what to say to mother and Ellen if I 
fall. Break the truth carefully to them, but tell them 
the truth.” He then added in a whisper, “ Watch 
keenly. There’ll be foul play, I fear. I see he has a 
knife. Don’t let him get to me.” 

“ Are you ready ?” inquired M. Leopold’s assistant 
of the antagonists. They assented. The word was 
given. A few moments—awful, insupportably awful, 
and the rigid grasp of suspense was broken by the 
sharp, thrilling reports—an instant apart. 

“ Are you hurt ?” I asked rushing up to Morgan. 

“Ho,” he responded, smiling scornfully at his 
antagonist; “but Ae is hurt!” 

I turned quickly, and saw M. Leopold struggling in 
the grasp of his assistant. 

“ Let me go !” ho howled, in wild frenzy. “ Let 
me go I Let me reach him. Get out my knife for 
me. I swear I can’t see. 0, God 1—too deep !—Oh I 
Oh!” and with a ghastly shudder he sank lifeless. 

I assisted in bearing the remains to the carriage. 
When we had adjusted them,and the man had mounted 


travellers’ entertainment. 359 

to his seat, I looked around for Morgan. He was 
gone. I lingered about for a while waiting ; but he 
did not make his appearance, and, at length I returned 
to town, going to my office as though nothing had 
happened. 

They bore the tidings to Ellen. At first she w'ould 
not believe them; but being solemnly assured, the 
anguishing truth came to her shattered mind. 

“ He is dead, and my brother killed him,” she said 
tremblingly, and with a low, desolate wail, she sank 
insensible. 

Unhappy being ! From that hour she was deadtc 
this world. A slow, consuming fever, accompanied 
with stupor and delirium, took fatal hold upon her, 
and day by day the lingering traces of what she once 
was passed away. 

At length her physician announced that she must 
die. We gathered around her couch. It was night. 
She murmured in her delirium, and we bent to catch 
the sounds. “ Brother, brother,” wildly pathetic. A 
shadow darkened the wall, and suddenly a tall form 
stood by the bed. It was Morgan, unexpectedly 
returned. 

“ Ellen,” said he appealingly, taking her passive 
hand, “ Ellen, do you know me ? I am Morgan.” 


360 


GREEN MOUNTAIN 


She stared vacantly at him, and then closed her 
eyes. She did not know him. He bent closer and 
kissed her. Then, quivering with a grief that has no 
tears, he left the room. Again we heard her murmur 
‘‘ Brotherbut we knew it was only a wandering 
memory of other years, and we did not call him 
back. 

Her breath grew fainter, fainter. We gazed in 
silence, broken only by the sobs of the agonized mother. 
As wo gazed a sudden light gleamed from the eyes of 
the dying one. She raised her hands as if reaching 
for some treasure almost within her grasp, and that 
magic smile shot forth its thrilling radiance. She 
seemed about to speak, but with a long sigh she 
ceased to breathe. The light of her eyes was gone ; 
the smile became as a smile* in marble. Ellen’s spirit 
was no longer ours to know and love. 

Thus the sorrowful remembrance which thirty-five 
years had scarcely dimmed, came to me, and I wept 
afresh, and turning from the hallowed grave, I went 
aw-'T- ’ '^ith sadness. 


THE END . 



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